


They go Together

by Queen_Sansa



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Slow Burn, Smut, top!spock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29047140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_Sansa/pseuds/Queen_Sansa
Summary: "The sudden realisation that - apparently unprompted - he is beginning to see the doctor not just as a respected and liked colleague but as a man, wha is more a man for whom he is experiencing increasing ... feelings causing the Vulcan's stomach to churn with the old shame.The emotions bubbling inside him are disquieting and illogical. Control, he tells himself sternly. I’m a Vulcan, not an adolescent human. Being no stranger to this shame, Spock bites back the mental flagellation, making a note to meditate on his new, disturbing emotions."The story of Leonard and Spock's relationship: starting a couple of months after the end of Season 3 of TOS, going all the way through the movies and beyond. Mapping all of their many high-points and struggles.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Comments: 22
Kudos: 75





	1. Cute

It all begins with a word. The word: cute. That one little word takes root inside Spock’s head until he can no longer think straight.

Jim, McCoy and he are all gathered in McCoy’s small office. The good doctor is tending to the captain’s hand, muttering darkly about damned clumsy fools as he removes a deeply embedded splinter from said Jim’s thumb. This is the last of a few such injuries obtained on a recent away mission which had involved a bribe, a fight and a whole lot of negotiating on the captain’s part to stop things turning really nasty. He, Spock and McCoy had escaped with their lives and most of their wits, but - as the doctor had put it - “I don’t think they’ll be joining the federation any time soon.”

Jim turns to Spock with an indulgent grin on his face. “He’s only angry because he cares.” This elicits a fresh stream of grumblingfrom the doctor. Jim sits back in his chair and smirks fondly as McCoy continues to fuss over his hand until, with a sigh and a slight smile of his own, McCoy declares him completely mended.

Leaning forwards to squeeze his friend’s forearm in thanks, Jim stops and instead grabs his left wrist instead.

McCoy recoils. “Jim, wha—“ But Jim isn’t listening; instead he is holding up his own arm beside the doctor’s. Spock too is at a loss to understand what the captain is doing.

“Your wrists are tiny,” Jim says with what appears to the Vulcan to be delight. Spock shifts his face to the two men’s outstretched arms. Now he comes to notice it, it is certainly true that McCoy’s wrist is perceptiblythan that of the captain - and indeed his own. Spock is, however, quite at a lossas to why this fact is so amusing to Jim.

McCoy appears to feel the same way as he self-consciously removes his arm from the captain’s grasp and mumbles, “What’s so damned funny about that?”

Looking slightly guilty, Jim replies “Nothing, Bones. Just cute. That’s all,” he favours the doctor with one of his most charming smiles. ”Let’s go.”

As they make their way to the officers’ mess, Spock finds himself in an even deeper state of puzzlement: he has heard humans refer to small animals and sometimes children as cute; he has also heard them refer to other adults whom they find physically attractive that way also, but neither case seems to apply here. Doctor McCoy is neither a small animal nor a child. There remains the option that Jim finds the doctor physically attractive, although Spock has only ever seen Jim chase the affections of women before. But then, muses Spock as the three of them stand in silence as the turbolift wizzes downward, Jim frequently makes illogical comments to crew members. Perhaps he simply meant to compliment the doctor.

As they eat, Jim and McCoy strike up a conversation about the reception that the officers are due to attend the following evening while Spock takes the opportunity to send the doctor covert glances. He is still not satisfied with the result of his reasoning in the turbo lift, so he steals another glance at the doctor’s wrists. Slender and delicate, they appear fragile.

Spock remembers when he first started living amongst humans; he had been struck by how breakable they had seemed, what with their far inferior strength and vigour. While he would never go as far as to back a human in a fist fight agains most species, Spock has found that his initial impression of humans as frail and physical weaklings had lessoned over the years. He’s seen Jim and Uhura - to name but a few - overturn unthinkable odds in escaping from physical danger. Yes, when it all comes down to it, thinks Spock, humans can stand up for themselves … Mostly.

When it comes to leaping into the unknown to save a life, Spock has noticed, the good doctor is only too willing to risk life and limb, but McCoy is the only one of Spock’s close colleagues whom the Vulcan will instinctively run to the aid of during fights. And yet - perhaps it is because of this perceived weakness - McCoy more than anyone onboard the _Enterprise_ seems to attract the most trouble during missions. Both physical and mental attacks have plagued the doctor since the beginning of the Five Year Mission almost four years ago.

“What?!” There is an almost pleading note in the blushing doctor’s voice as he breaks through Spock’s wall of thoughts. As the Vulcan comes back to himself, he realises that he has been staring at McCoy’s wrists for the past several minutes.

After murmuring an apology, Spock wonders at his friend’s sensitivity and wonders if he has been teased about his slender wrists in the past. In his years amongst them Spock has observed that some human males can be very cruel to their fellow men when femininity and delicateness are percieved. This has always perplexed the Vulcan, who had grown up on a mostly matriarchal planet.

Without warning, an odd feeling rises in Spock: he feels a twinge of something rise in him; it is not quite pity, more an urge to protect. It is also, Spock acknowledges to himself, quite illogical: the doctor is not under any current threat. And yet, that is definitely what he is feeling, impossible to deny. _I shall meditate on this when I retire to my quarters,_ he thinks _._

The other two are standing. Jim asks McCoy if he wishes to join them as they play their traditional weekly chess match. McCoy mumbles something about writing up some lab results, before bidding them both good night.

***

Spock is losing the game. Badly.

“What is up with you tonight?” Jim demands, slumping back in his chair. “You’ve hardly spoken since we got back from the mission. Cat got your tongue?” At the Vulcan’s raised eyebrow, Jim sighs dramatically, eyes twinkling. “It’s a human expression, Spock.”

“I see,” says the Vulcan. “Well, I can assure you, Captain,that I am quite well.” He pauses, wondering whether or not he should enquire. Letting his curiosity overpower his sense of Vulcan propriety he tentatively asks “Jim … what is ‘cute?’”

Jim frowns slightly. “Cute, Spock?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Well,” Jim says slowly. “I guess you could say it means endearing … but … not quite that. Sweet? … Not quite that, either. I suppose it’s more of a … feeling: you know ‘awww…’”

“‘Awww’, Captain?”

“Oh, you know what I mean, Spock. Like when you see a puppy and your heart fills up: awww.”

“I see.”

Jim chuckles at his friend’s obvious bemusement. “Anyway,” he says as he watches Spock toying distractedly with his queen. “What brought all this on, or are you just trying tp distract me from my game?” He chuckles.

A pause.

“You described the fact that Dr McCoy has small wrists as cute; I was merely puzzled, ”admitted Spock eventually. And then - as an attempt to lighten the exchange, “Given his reaction, I would not tell him that you bracket him in with puppies, if I were you.”

Jim laughs again. “And you’d better not tell him either, or he’ll be conducting my next physical the medieval way, like he’s always threatening.”

The game does not last much longer before Jim is declared victor and the two men stand to leave.

“Oh, Spock, what time are we all supposed to be on the hanger deck for the Anonians tomorrow?” Jim asks as he repositions pieces on the board, in preparation for their next match.

“1900, Captain,” Spock says at once, hands clasped behind his back. “They are sending their own shuttlecraft to transport us.”

“Good of them,” Jim says vaguely as he finishes rearranging his side of the chess stand, and then, standing straight, “Hope Scotty isn’t too wounded by that.”

“Doctor McCoy has informed me that Mr Scott has promised to ‘behave himself’ even if - in the doctor’s words, not mine - they send a ‘damned piss pot’ to collect us.”

Another smile from Jim as they part for their respective quarters. “Good night, Spock.”

“Good night, Jim.”

***

They are gathered on the hanger deck, waiting for their transport to arrive to take them to the Anonian reception. They consist of Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Scotty, Uhura and sundry other lieutenants and ensigns. Twelve of them in total. Jim is giving instructions to Sulu through the wall console, the latter having been spared the diplomatic function due to bridge duty.

Spock, hands clasped behind his back, wanders over to where McCoy and Scotty are engaged in conversation. Upon his approach they move so that the Vulcan can more easily join in.

“Hey Spock,” McCoy says with a slight smile. “you’ve caught Scotty here casting aspersions on our gracious hosts.”

Scotty’s face turns indignant. “If they dinna even trust us to get to them in one piece, they’re hardly the type you want to form an alliance wi,’” he says darkly.

“I told you,” McCoy chides, though he is grinning. “You’re not to complain about it. Anyway, they probably don’t mean it as a slight on the Miracle Worker’s reputation.”

“The captain believes that the Anonians mean it as a courtesy,” supplies Spock. This is greeted with a slight _hmph_ from the uncharacteristically grumpy chief engineer.

“Anyway,” McCoy muses. “I think if they really wanted to be courteous they’d have let us come in standard uniform and not these damned straight jackets.” This remark manages to elicit a chuckle from Scotty. “God knows what sort of evening we’ve got in store.”

“Well,” says Spock drily.“If previous such events are anything to go by, you and Mr Scott shall, upon arrival, waste no time in locating the refreshment table. You shall endeavour to match Mr Scott drink for drink, despite the copious evidence that such a feet is beyond your capacity. By the time we have to leave you will be incapable of walking unassisted. And when we do get back to the _Enterprise_ , you shall spend the next 19 to 31 hours is a sullen mood.”

For just a moment he wonders if he has angered the doctor, but McCoy merely smirks at him and taps his nose as Scotty roars with laughter.

When the shuttlecraft finally arrives and the twelve of them make their way onboard, McCoy makes to follow Scotty into one of the two-seated rows which are not dissimilar to the seating arrangements of an old earth minibus. Jim stops him. “Oh no you don’t! I can’t stop the pair of you egging each other on while we’re at the reception, but you can at least manage the journey without him.”

Scowling and muttering about not being some damned kid McCoy drops into the seat beside Spock, as Jim fills the one beside his chief engineer. Spock here’s Scotty say “It’s no Copernicus, but it it’ll get us there in one piece at least. ”

McCoy lets out a snort of laughter. “Such a diva.”

_***_

Their arrival is smooth and unremarkable. The delegation who greet them quickly conduct them into a high-ceilinged, elegantly grand hall where they are allowed to mingle with the high-office holding Anonians.

Jim is soon swamped by a gaggle of Anonians who are eager to talk with the famous starship captain. Spock too finds himself inundated by those who wish to meet the notorious Vulcan-Human hybrid. He has experienced such curiosity before, and often much more hostile than here, but he has never enjoyed being studied and analysed as if he were a lab sample. He knows that it is an emotional response, but nevertheless he has never enjoyed his otherness being laid bare in front of him. Some insecurities, no matter how illogical, run too deep to be easily ignored.

As politely and deftly as he can, Spock manages to free himself of the polite and eminently gracious Anonians’ attentions as he scans the room for McCoy and Scotty. Sure enough - and to Spock’s amusement - they are making a close inspection of the alcoholic drinks on display. McCoy has a large plate of pastries and sweet foods in his arms, while Mr Scott is selecting their drinks. This done, they make their way to a deserted corner that is dominated by an enormous L-shaped purple sofa

To his surprise, Spock finds himself following Scotty and McCoy to the shaded corner. “Gentlemen, may I join you?” Spock asks as he approaches the two of them.

“Of course you can, Mr Spock,” says the Scotsman immediately. “Yeh dinna need to ask. McCoy, budge up! D’you fancy a wee dram?”

McCoy, who already appears to be tipsy, points a finger at Scotty in a mock stern manner and says “Mr Spock’s ancestors were spared the dubious effects of alcohol, Scotty.” He seems to think for a moment before adding “So, I guess Spock could drink even _you_ under the table.” He ends with an undignified snort in response to Scotty’s slight scowl. Mr Scott takes his reputation as the consulate Scotsman very seriously.

“Spock might. You still canna.” Sniffs Scotty and McCoy giggle. He turns to Spock with a look of genuine shock: “You mean you canna get drunk?” The engineer’s tone would be appropriate to address the recently bereaved.

“Vulcans can reach intoxication,” Spock clarifies. “Though not through the consumption of your alcohol.”

“Ah,” says the engineer, his features returning to normal. “That’s no’ so bad then. If yeh dinna mind me asking, what does work as an intoxicant?”

Spock considers for a while and then points to a Terran style chocolate brownie on the plate beside McCoy. “That would.”

McCoy’s blue eyes brighten and he holds out the plate to him. “Well Mr Spock, care to join us for a brownie? They won’t be as good as my Grandaddy used to make ‘em, but they’ll hit the spot.”

For the second time that night Spock surprises himself: on a normal day he would not hesitate in declining the doctor’s offer of an intoxicant. And yet tonight he finds himself sorely tempted. He wonders if it is a result of the way the Anonians had behaved with their scientific interest in him as an un-belonging specimen. But he has felt that particular brand of alienation before without feeling the need to indulge in intoxicants. Perhaps it is merely scientific curiosity: the urge to experience the state of intoxication first hand, but that doesn’t seem to be it either. If he’s honest with himself, the reason he’s so tempted to join the other men in their intoxication is a desire to be part of a group, to join in, to no longer be the outsider - even if it is just for one night.

“Thank you, doctor,” he says as he accepts the brownie. McCoy’s eyes widen in astonishment.

“I didn’t think you’d actually want to,” he says, though he looks pleased.

The other two watch as Spock raises the brownie to his mouth. “Down it!” McCoy cries before laughing at his joke.

Favouring the good doctor with a slight eyebrow raise, Spock takes a small bite. The taste is sweet and slightly clawing to his Vulcan palette, but he can feel something almost straight away: a slight warmth low in his belly. _Not altogether unpleasant,_ thinks Spock as he takes another, larger bite of the brownie.

“Well?” McCoy demands eagerly, finishing off his own drink and lounging back against the cushions of the sofa as he gazed upon the Vulcan.

“The sensation is quite pleasing,” he admits, as McCoy’s face splits into a delighted smile. Quite why, Spock does not understand, yet he realises that he likes the sight of McCoy smiling at him more than perhaps he should.

As he finishes the brownie Scotty gets to his feet. “My round,” he says as he heads towards the refreshment table once more. Spock turns a questioning gaze upon McCoy.

“He means it’s his turn to get this round of drinks,” explains the doctor helpfully.

“I see.” Spock also sits back against the cushions, mimicking the doctor’s posture. During his time among hums, Spock has observed that something about this particular human ritual - the companionable drink - forms more of a bond among participants than almost any other form of social interaction he can think of. The intimacy created between drinking companions has often fascinated him. And sure enough, as Scotty returns with fresh drinks and a particularly large slab of chocolate brownie for Spock, the Vulcan finds himself slipping ever more effortlessly into easy conversation and an inescapable warmth for his companions as the effects of the chocolate begin to take hold of him.

They reminisce about the early days of the Five Year Mission with increasing fondness that all three knew they had not felt at the time: the timethe transporter had split Jim into a Jeckyll and a Hyde, the time Spock and Jim had had to dress up as Chicago style gangsters, the time - McCoy howls with laughter to remember it - that Scotty had started a brawl with the Klingons over the honour of the _Enterprise_ and the time that McCoy and Spock had been stuck 5000 years in the past in a planet’s ice age. Spock notices that McCoy does not laugh at this recollection.

A fresh round of drinks - Spock’s turn - sees the doctor’s spirits improve as the talk turns to Scotty’s rather archaic first name: “Did your mother _actually_ call you Montgomery, or …” McCoy’s voice trails off into giggles, as his head lolls back against the cushions.

“Only if Ah’d been really bad.”

McCoy’s head turns on its cushion as he addresses Spock. “Do you have a first name, or are you just … Spock?”

“I have a first name, or rather, names, doctor,” says Spock. Slightly mischievously he adds “I doubt you’d be able to pronounce them.”

As he’d known he would, McCoy takes the bait. With visible effort, the doctor sits up. “Oh, yeah? Try us.”

“Very well.” Spock sits forward and clearly enunciates “S’chn T’gai.”

The resultant attempts at pronouncing his name cost Spock almost every ounce of his Vulcan control to not burst out laughing. Instead, a genuine and rare smile crosses his features as his friends grapple with his native tongue.

They are still attempting - under his tutelage - minutes later when Scotty spots Uhura and a group of Anonians drift by and decides to join them.

Spock is illogically pleased that the doctor makes no move to follow. Instead the two of them sit in a comfortable silence as they watch Scotty hail Uhura and become absorbed into the group.

“I think he’s sweet on her,” McCoy muses at length. He’s lying almost flat against the cushions of the sofa, his dress uniform loose at the neck - revealing the collar of his regulation black undershirt. “Always laughing and smiling when he’s around. I’ve never seen him look that way at anything other than at machi…machinery.” He giggles slightly. “She’s got him good.”

“Lieutenant Uhura? ” Spock asks, surprised.

“Mmm.”

Spock leans back so that their faces are more or less level. “They are both highly efficient officers,” he concedes. “I imagine they would be compatible.”

McCoy turns to face him, his blue eyes teasing. “You mean she’s a Gemini and he’s a Libra?” McCoy’s voice is teasing: they’ve had this discussion before.

“No, doctor. That is not what I meant,” says Spock, the corners of his mouth lifting in a slight smile as McCoy takes a sip of his 7th bourbon. “I merely meant that both Mr Scott and Lt Uhura have easygoing temperaments and are used to dealing with high stress situations.”

“Why, Mr Spock, you’re a romantic.” For the briefest of moments, the doctor’s head falls onto his shoulder, causing any retort Spock might have given to fly right out of his head.

“Sjing Ga. Sjim Sga Spock. That was it, wasn’t it?!” The doctor’s voice is triumphant.

“No.”

“What?! Well, it was closer, wasn’t it.”

“Negative.”

The sight of the doctor sprawled on the squashy sofa, his head almost at the level of his knees and his arms splayed at his side as he mumbles the unfamiliar words does something to Spock: he cannot explain the wave of deep affection that washes over him and is uncomfortably aware that it is not all down to the 6 brownies he has consumed that night.

As he gazes warmly down at his friend, a word comes to his intoxicated mind and he feels the need to share it.

“Docter McCoy,” he says. “You are cute.”

Immediately, the doctor’s eyebrows shoot up and a strange look passes over his face for a split second, long enough for Spock to think that he’s said something wrong. But the look is quickly replaced by a rather sweet smile. “Thank you, Spock,” he says, patting the Vulcan’s hand briefly. Spock quickly stems the volley of foreign emotions that greet him upon contact with the doctor and files them away for later perusal.

Growing increasingly aware of just how close the two of them have become, Spock gazes down of the human: languid posture, eyes lidded, with a soft smile playing at his lips, he is staring into the distance. His hand is resting there on the sofa, meme inches away from Spock’s. What would happen, the Vulcan wonders, if he were to take McCoy’s hand in his own. The atmosphere between them is pleasant and strangely intimate; Spock cannot recall ever feeling such an affectionate pull toward another person before. He finds that he likes talking to McCoy like this, enjoys the comfortable way in which they discussed the relations of Scotty and Uhura, the conspiratorial gleam in the doctor’s eyes as he’d imparted his suspicion - his secret - to Spock. It ignites something inside him, some unknown urge - no, not an urge: a _need_ to belong. To be here with this particular human.

The sudden realisation that - apparently unprompted - he is beginning to see the doctor not just as a respected and liked colleague but as a man, wha is more a man for whom he is experiencing increasing ... feelings causing the Vulcan's stomach to churn with the old shame.The emotions bubbling inside him are disquieting and illogical. _Control_ , he tells himself sternly. _I’m a Vulcan, not an adolescent human._ Being no stranger to this shame, Spock bites back the mental flagellation, making a note to meditate on his new, disturbing emotions.

He is almost relieved when not long later Jim approaches them to tell them that it is time to go. The captain does not seem to have had as pleasant an evening as his First Oficer and as they make their way back to the shuttlecraft he demands of Spock and McCoy - who is leaning rather heavily on the Vulcan as he walks - “Did you two do any mingling, or was it all just drinking?”

“Sure we did,” McCoy drawls as he takes two attempts to climb the step to the shuttlecraft. “Spock was mingling for ages before he started.”

The shock that his esteemed First Officer had been consuming intoxicants is enough to stop Kirk in his tracks. “You, Spock?” he doesn’t sound cross anymore.

Spock clears his throat self-consciously. “I wished to experience the sensation,” he says lamely, helping McCoy towards their seats as Jim follows looking stunned.

“Yeah,” McCoy says defensively, glaring at his captain. “And that’s nothing Scotty and I haven’t done a hundred times before, so no giving him a hard time.”

Quite apart from looking angry, Jim smiles at the sight of his Chief Medical Officer jumping to the defence of his usual sparring partner. “Touche, Bones.” He turns to address the full party, who have resumed their seats. “Take off in 1 minute, ladies and gentleman.” And with that, he takes his seat beside Scotty.

As they soar through space back to the _Enterprise_ , Spock senses the doctor’s sleepiness beside him. He is still endearingly tipsy. For a second time that night, McCoy’s head falls onto Spock’s shoulder, though this time he does not move away.

“Schin ga,” the doctor slurs and then giggles again. His hair tickles sporks cheek as the human begins to snore very softly.

“Comfortable, Mr Spock?” enquires the captain from across the aisle, a small smirk pulling at his lips.

“Yes, Captain. Thank you,” replies Spock stiffly, but he does not make a move to wake the doctor.

Since the shuttlecraft is not due to dock for another hour, Spock decides to examine the doctor’s emotions from earlier that night, obtained during the brief hand contact, which the Vulcan had stored away along with his own forbidden feelings, to be examined and disposed of.

With the air of a man trespassing on someone’s elicit secret he unpacks the doctor’s transmitted thoughts. It is like flicking through the pages of an old earth picture book, though in place of pictures, he experiences flickers of emotion. First is the feeling of overwhelming wooziness from the intoxicants the doctor had consumed. Second, a strong feeling of warm affection for his companion - for _him_ , Spock realises with an excited glow in the pit of his stomach. Thirdly, a sense of giddy hope; as if something McCoy had long since abandoned any dream of happening has finally and abruptly come to pass.

However, the dominant emotion - or emotions, to be more precise - are those of a terrible loneliness; a desperate longing unfulfilled; something that has caused the doctor a great deal of pain and suffering.

Spock comes to himself abruptly. He has no right, he tells himself, to delve into the doctor’s inner most thoughts - even if they are so easily accessible to him as a Vulcan.

McCoy makes a sleepy noise against Spock’s shoulder. The Vulcan turns to gaze down at the sight of the doctor cosied up against him and as he does so McCoy - still asleep - moves so that they are even closer, sides pressed together. McCoy smiles in his sleep, a soft gentle smile, and mumbles something that - unless Spock’s Vulcan ears deceive him - sounds an awful lot like _Spock._

Unable to resist the pull of warm intoxication that still surrounds McCoy, Spock finds himself leaning in to the doctor’s touch.

 _Yes,_ he thinks as he too begins to doze, _there will be a good deal to ponder when next I get the chance to meditate._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drink responsibly!


	2. The Morning After the Night Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock and Leonard deal with the events of last night's antics.
> 
> Note: I am quite probably taking a liberty with my description of Vulcan hormones and their behaviour towards their (future) mates: call it artistic licence! 
> 
> Enjoy!

He dreams of a warm solid body pressed against him; of hot breath ghosting gently through his hair. Then he wakes.

As Leonard roles onto his back, shielding his rapidly blinking eyes from the aggressive glare of the dim lights, he is instantly assailed by the worst headache since - well, since the last time he tried to outdrink Scotty, at the Christmas party last year.

Attempting to disentangle himself from his blankets, he gets out of bed and pads across to the bathroom where he had left an anticipatory hypo on the counter the previous morning. Its hiss takes away some of the sting of the headache: enough for the memory of the events of the previous night to crawl to the fore.

Had he really been drinking with _Spock_? Spock intoxicated at an official function? He clings to the cabinet as he remembers how he’d spent several drunken minutes trying to pronounce Spock’s first names, how he’d been unable to walk unassisted by the Vulcan as they got up to leave, of how - he buries his head against the counter at the recollection - he’d woken on the shuttlecraft to find himself practically wrapped round the Vulcan.

“Oh god!” he groans as he bangs his head on the counter, achieving nothing but a further pain in his forehead. _How could you have let yourself go like that?_ he chastises himself. The fact that he’d been asleep … that Spock had been so warm and it had been so long since Leonard had slept beside someone.

As he dresses for work, Leonard faces with mounting dread the fact that he will have to come face-to-face with the First Oficer in a few short minutes. How will be be able to loo him in the eye ever again? They still have to serve together for almost a year and even if by some miracle he is able to avoid the Vulcan at work, their quarters are next door to each other.

His catastrophising is interrupted by the boson’s whistle and for a moment he is sure it is Spock come to tell him that they can no longer work together after the doctor’s unprofessional conduct of the night before. Or something equally as Vulcan. However, when he turns the monitor on it is the smirking face of James T. Kirk that greets him.

“You busy, Bones?”

“Terribly,” he says sarcastically. “Keeping all youfools alive is a full time occupation.”

The captain’s grin widens as it always does at Leonard’s grumblings (one of the many reasons the doctor is incapable of being angry at him for long). “Come to the bridge before work. Scotty and I’ve got something to show you.”

*******

He is surprised to discover his excesses of the night before have not resulted in a hangover when he awakens. Vulcan metabolisms are efficient machines.

Almost immediately upon waking, his thoughts go to the doctor and the antics of the previous night. Wondering how much of the wave of increasing affection can fairly be attributed to their mutual intoxication, he doesn’t suppose he’ll be able to judge until he sees the doctor in person again. This will likely be within the next few hours as the Chief Medical Officer seems to spend almost as much time on the bridge as he does in sickbay If this does not transpire, Spock can always go to the lab to inspect the progress of his latest experiment, thus taking him past sickbay.

As he gets out of bed and performs his usual morning rituals, he wonders if McCoy too had felt the subtle yet inexorable shift, the new closeness that he had the previous night. Had the doctor enjoyed the proximity, the effortless way they had been able to talk to each other without once arguing but at the same time remaining true to their old bantering ways? Most of all - and Spock blushes to think of it - had McCoy exulted in the easy way in which they had touched each other as much as he had?

The feeling of the doctor’s hand on his, his arm around Spock’s waist as the Vulcan half carried him back to the shuttlecraft, the sensation of McCoy asleep with his head on Spock’s shoulder, of falling asleep next to —

 _Don’t think about that_ , he chides himself as the old shame sinks in. Engrained in him since his earliest childhood the feelings of self recrimination and self loathing threaten of overcome him. But as he begins to dress himself another voice starts in his head - a voice that sounds remarkably like Jim’s. _Why shouldn’t you think like that?_ it asks. _You’re unmarried, unattached and fighting your human half is illogical._

 _I am a Vulcan!_ he tells himself sternly. The answering voice is his father’s, always so cold and disappointed: _You are half human._

There is of course the question of McCoy’s feelings. Perhaps he had felt nothing of what the Vulcan had. After all, he drinks with Scott frequently and has never fallen into his arms. Perhaps the Vulcan had only imagined the intimacy of the night before. Vulcan or not, Spock is honest enough to admit to himself that he would be more that a little disappointed if this is the case.

It is with a heavy heart that the First Officer exits his cabin and proceeds to the turbo lift.

As he steps out of the turbo lift and onto the bridge he realises that Jim, Scotty and Uhura are all bending over a PADD while Sulu and Chekov are turned towards the captain’s chair, each with a similar smirk on their face. In fact, the only person who does not appear to be heartily amused is Dr McCoy himself, who is leaning on the railings behind the captain.

At the _swoosh_ of the doors behind him, Jim turns and - to Spock’s surprise - grins broadly. “Talk of the devil!” he exclaims. “Come and look at this, Spock.”

“Jim, no —” McCoy begins, looking suddenly mortified, but Jim cuts across him.

“Oh Bones, you’re such a prude. Spock won’t mind - it’s cute, right, Spock?”

With mounting trepidation, Spock approaches the captain. On the screen of the PADD is a picture of him and McCoy that had clearly been taken while they were both asleep. The doctor’s posture had changed from what Spock could remember as he’d fallen asleep the night before: McCoy is turned in his seat so that his whole body is facing Spock, his face nuzzled into the Vulcan’s shoulder and he appears to be hugging the Vulcan round the waist as he sleeps. Spock’s own face is pressed gently into the doctor’s thick brown hair, hand resting gently on the doctor’s shoulder.

Suddenly, and with a startling ferocity, a primal fire spreads through him at the image. Quite opposed to feeling embarrassed or ashamed, for that split second he relishes completely this physical momento of his and McCoy’s closeness of that perfect evening. He wishes he could recall the feeling of the doctor’s hair beneath his lips, that warm, lean body pressed as close to his as a lover’s.

In that moment of madness he is glad that the bridge crew have seen them like this; he wants the whole ship to see it.

It takes all the control he can muster to calm the arousal inside him. He only half manages before he looks up to see that McCoy is watching him, face flushed with humiliation and mortification for his unconscious actions being publicly circulated. His nervous gaze is laced with fear and he hugs himself as he waits for the Vulcan’s reaction. He looks so vulnerable and wretched in that moment that the madness inside Spock is screaming for him to claim the human in his arms right there on the bridge.

With an effort he forces himself to face Jim, who is looking rather sheepish. He raises an eyebrow.

“If that’s you two wanted me for,” says McCoy in a tight voice gazing from Scotty to the captain. “I’ll be heading back to sickbay.”

“Yeah,” says Jim with an apologetic air. “I’ll be up later, Bones.”

“If you don not mind, doctor,” interjects Spock. “I would like to accompany you as I have lab specimens to examine. That is,” he turns to Jim, “if that is alright with you, Captain.”

With a flick of his hand in the direction of the turbo lift Jim signals his approval.

In the turbo lift Spock makes sure that he stands far enough away from McCoy for the doctor not to be uncomfortable but close enough for the doctor to know that Spock is not himself uncomfortable about the previous night.

“I apologise if you were embarrassed on the bridge,” says Spock evenly.

“’S not your fault Jim’s an asshole,” mumbles McCoy, though he relaxes noticeably at Spock’s concern. Tentatively, not quite looking Spock in the eye he adds “I enjoyed last night.” He licks his lips - that little endearing tick be performs when he’s unsure or nervous.

He’s bleary eyed and the hair on the back of his head is tousled: clearly the doctor’s metabolism is not that of a Vulcan. It adds to the his general air of shy vulnerability which is causing Spock such inner trouble.

“I also found the night … agreeable.”

McCoy’s face split into a shy smile. _Control yourself_ , Spock told himself sternly. “I’m glad,” he says. “You should — I mean we should ….” He trails off licking his lips again.

“Doctor,” says Spock throwing caution to the wind as they exit the turbo lift and head into sickbay. The war inside him did not seem to be abating. “How would you like to join me for dinner tonight?”

McCoy’s eyes widen in shock. “That … that sounds nice, Spock.” He thinks for a second before clarifying “Not with alcohol?” He gestures vaguely to his slightly disheveled head. “I don’t think I could go two nights of that.”

The corners of Spock’s mouth curl up in a small smile. “No alcohol, or intoxicants of any nature.” The doctor laughs sheepishly. “Would 1900 suit you?”

They agree to meet at Spock’s quarters at 1900 and part company: McCoy for his office and Spock - as he would look foolish without having some sort of pretext for having followed the doctor - leaves for the science labs.

***

During his lunch break Jim tracks him down. He’s in his office and half way through a plate of salad sandwiches.

Mouth full, he ushers Jim into the seat opposite him with a wave of his sandwich. The captain is looking rather guilty, making Leonard certain as to the cause of the visit.

“I just wanted to say that we shouldn’t have done that this morning,” he says sheepishly. The man has always had the disconcerting - and often infuriating - ability of making it impossible to stay annoyed at him. Leonard gazes into his face, a picture of contrition. He hadn’t meant to embarrass the doctor, merely to tease his friend as they both have done a thousand times.

“’S’alright,” he grunts. And then, so as to be sure that the captain knows there are no hard feelings: “Your physical’s just around the corner anyway, so we’ll see how that goes.”

Jim snorts. “Anyway, you never said how you managed to get Spock drunk!”

“I didn’t. He just came over and asked if he could join us.” Leonard hesitates, wondering whether or not to tell the captain of that morning’s events. He decides yes, more due to the fact he wants to talk about his predicament with someone than anything else.

“He asked me to dinner tonight,” says Leonard, his tone somewhere between anxiety and glee. “And yesterday, after he’d had all those brownies … he … called me cute.”

The esteemed captain of the _Enterprise_ ’s response would have put most schoolyard gossips to shame. “ _No!_ ” he exclaimed with relish. While Leonard gives him an abridged rundown of the last night’s events he sits with his mouth agape. By the time Leonard is clarifying that Spock had not actually specified whether or not their dinner was to be a date Jim is slowly shaking his head, an indulgent smirk on his face.

“I fucking knew it…”

“Knew what?”

“You and Spock.”

“What about me and Spock?”

Jim’s grin is contagious and Leonard can’t help but join in, albeit a little self-consciously.

Clearing his throat, he says: “He might just want to - I dunno - extol the virtues of intoxication…” Jim snorts again.

“Did you see his face when he saw the picture this morning?” Leonard frowns slightly. Yes, a strange intensity had radiated from the Vulcan, so intense as to be almost tangible.

Jim claps him on the arm as he gets up to return to the bridge. “Didn’t think I’d live to see a Vulcan crush in action but our Dr McCoy is more than anyone can resist.”

“Ass!” Leonard calls to the captain’s retreating back, but he’s laughing.

Jim hadn’t, Leonard notes as he finishes his lunch and returns to work, asked him if he wanted it to be a date. _And there was me thinking I was subtle_ …

***

As he goes about his day Spock can’t help but wonder at the suddenness of this attraction that he can no longer deny. He has for a long time now considered the doctor to be one of his closest friends, along with Jim of course.

But, he muses, the two friendships have always been of markedly different character: his friendship with Jim is based on a mutual respect for the ideals of the Federation as well as an easy bonhomie which allows Spock to easily confide in his captain if he is suffering from misgivings surrounding a mission or the like. Beside his mother, Jim is the human with whom Spock can speak most easily and whose advice is almost always sound. He had been fond of Jim since the very day they’d met.

McCoy on the other hand had been something of an acquired taste. It had taken a good few months for them to learn to get along, or at least for their bickering to grow less hostile and become more in the spirit of good humoured banter.

Spock knows it had upset Jim - who was keen for his two closest friends to get along together - to see them argue as much as they had and it was out of a mutual caring for their captain and friend that Spock and McCoy had put so much effort into forging - if not a friendship of their own - at least a respect of sorts.

Though friendship had undeniably come. Slowly and with much bravado but, mission to mission, Spock had found his respect and grudging appreciation for the man’s commitment to his work grow into genuine fondness.

Even in the beginning when they had griped and argued more frequently McCoy’s conversation had stimulated Spock in a way that Jim’s could not. McCoy had offered a measure by which to judge his conscience, a challenge to Spock’s long-held Vulcan ideals. The fact that they had so often held identical opinions - on peace, most notably - but had arrived at them from different reasoning - out of compassion and human car for the doctor, and of a logical desire to prevent suffering for the Vulcan -had struck Spock deeply. He would likely even now never admit it to the doctor, but his constant championing of the human spirit has helped Spock feel more at peace with that half of his nature.

That is not to say that he hasn’t been stung by some of the more caustic remarks made by the good doctor: frequent references to his Vulcan appearance had at first seemed to signal prejudice and distrust. However, the more he has gotten to know McCoy over the years the less Spock believes that the doctor means anything by it.

Indeed, McCoy’s is almost always the voice that calls for non-violence, compassion and peace at almost any cost and even when Spock himself has advocated attack against an antagonistic foe.

Spock remembers how McCoy’s capacity for great kindness and care had surprised him: the doctor hid it well under a mask of curmudgeonly bluster. It had impressed the Vulcan who had not expected to encounter pacifism from a human, much less this one.

Spock dwells on the realisation. It had brought him up short at the time, forced him to examine his own prejudices in relation to humans and one human in particular.

A line from an old earth film comes to him suddenly. _You make me want to be a better man._ Yes, McCoy has had that effect on him for a while now, though now he suspects it may be for different reasons.

In the four years Spock has served with the doctor there has only ever been one instance, Spock believes, in which the doctor had been genuinely furious with him. That had been when the doctor had gotten wind of the comments Spock had made to the yeoman Janice Rand shortly following her attack at the hands of the Hyde Kirk. McCoy had cornered Spock in the deserted biology lab and shouted at him for a solid 7.2 minutes without - it seemed to Spock - pausing for breath. Eventually he had sighed heavily and explained to the Vulcan how emotionally traumatising sexual assaults were for humans, ‘especially when it’s the damned captain you have to work with every day’.

When he’d gone to Rand to apologise she had told him that McCoy was helping her cope with the aftermath, and how the doctor’s kindness and support had helped her avoid a total breakdown.

Rand had moved on not long after, but Spock had realised that - as much as Jim and he teased McCoy for his bedside manner - when crisis came McCoy was the consummate doctor.

Once he finishes his shift at 1800 and returns to his quarters to prepare for their dinner, Spock allows images of some of the most memorable moments of the past four years to pass through his mind. McCoy sprawled on the floor having tested an unknown vaccine on himself so as to save the crew; McCoy, face white and set, buffeting Jim out of the way as he flung his arms around the Vulcan, as the latter emerged from the hanger chamber after destroying the giant amoeba; McCoy bending over him, face stricken and eyes puffy as Spock’s eyesight returned after the doctor’s well intentioned cure.

As he scans his wardrobe for a suitable outfit to wear that evening, another memory comes to him. A memory that is surrounded by a primitive Vulcan mist; McCoy slammed roughly against a cave wall by a madman, his eyes are fearful as he clutches at Spock’s arms, trying to reason with the Vulcan. Yet even through the mists of insanity Spock can feel the human’s arousal.

As the memory of his own weakness, of his loss of control comes back to him, Spock feels an all too familiar wave of shame pass over him. It is not just for the recollections of the event of over a year ago, but that the thought of Mccoy’s arousal is causing his own loin to burn.

He selects a set of sober brown robes that his mother had made for him just before he signed up for the Five Year Mission. She had told him that they brought out his eyes. Perhaps McCoy would think that too.

When the door chimes at a few minutes before 1900 Spock feels a stab of anticipation in his belly before he answers. A lot is riding on the evening for him and he wants to see for sure if the mood of the night before could be recaptured with the two of them sober.

McCoy’s nervousness of that morning seems to have abated somewhat. As he surveys Spock in his Vulcan robes he says with a rueful smile: “I’d have changed into something smarter if I’d known you were gonna get all dressed up.”

“Really doctor? I was not aware that you would wish to wear your dress uniform two nights ina row.” _I like the sight of you in your science blues. They augment your eyes._ McCoy chuckles and steps inside.

“Oh, this is nice,” the doctor exclaims as he catches sight of the laden table. Spock has set a teapot in the middle and made room for of their respective meals at each side. “You make a good house, Spock.”

“Thank you, doctor,” says the Vulcan, unable to keep a note of pride out of his voice. If Vulcans can be said to be prideful about anything it is their hospitality.“If you will sit, I shall serve the tea.”

Once seated and sipping his freshly brewed tea, Spock ventures “It is not your southern bourbon, but I think it ought to ‘hit the spot’ as you say.”

McCoy laughs, a slight blush painting his cheeks at the reference to his intoxication of the night before. “It’s nice. Is it from Vulcan?”

“Affirmative. From my mother’s garden, to be precise,” says Spock. “She brought me a large amount when she and my father were aboard the _Enterprise_.”

For some reason McCoy ‘ _aw’_ s at this information.

As the doctor sips his tea, Spock fetches their meals: a leafy salad of the variety Jim would turn his nose up at for himself and a steak for McCoy.

“I don’t suppose this is from your mother’s garden,” says McCoy as he enthusiastically tucks into his meal.

“Negative. There are no cows on Vulcan.”

“Shame. I like cows.”

They eat in a companionable silence for a little while before McCoy speaks.

“Spock, there’s something I wanted to ask you,” he asks tentatively. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” The Vulcan raises an eyebrow, inviting him to proceed.

McCoy gazes self-consciously at his plate as he tries to find the right words. “I’ve been offering you drinks for ‘bout four years now and you’ve never — I mean … what’s changed? Why last night?”

Spock surveys the doctor, head tilted slightly, considering. He can’t tell him everything. Not yet anyway. But he can’t tell him the same lie - for he knows it was a lie - he told Jim last night about it being for the good of science.

He settles for half the truth. “The Anonians, while a courteous species are apt to —” it is his turn to fumble for words, it seems. “… As a child on Vulcan, the only Human-Vulcan hybrid, I was often regarded with …derision … mistrust … unkindness.” He has never enjoyed speaking of his childhood unhappiness, not even to his mother, yet it sees _comfortable_ to do so here. McCoy hasn’t moved a muscle since he began; fork suspended midway between plate and mouth, he gazes at Spock with rapt attention.

“Even when these elements were not present, I was often made to feel more as an outsider than a child: an experiment. The Anonians were very curious to behold a half human Vulcan…” McCoy could figure out the rest himself.

“I see,” says the doctor in a small voice. He is looking at Spock strangely. He swallows, wets his lips and meets Spock’s gaze. “Spock, I’ve said things to you in the past that … that I’m not proud of.” He pauses, another slight flush spreading over his cheeks. Spock waits for him to continue, curious as to what the doctor will say.

Squirming visibly, the doctor finally blurts out “What I’m trying to say is that I say things that I don’t mean and if I’ve ever hurt you,” he swallows again and Spock can see real pain in his eyes. “I’m sorry,”he says thickly.

The Vulcan is struck by the intensity of feeling in McCoy. “Doctor McCoy,” he says gently. “There is nothing for which you need apologise.” Then with a mischievous gleam in his eye he adds “You are only human after all.”

The doctor is shocked into a startled laugh. “ _Asshole!_ ” he exclaims. “I thought I was being reprimanded or something.”

Spock realises he likes making him laugh: his whole face lights up. It shows that he understands what Spock had been trying to convey: that he has always enjoyed their verbal sparring and that he always gives as good as he gets.

The doctor gently proves “It can’t have been easy for you … not being full Vulcan.”

Spock pauses. No, it had not been easy having to hide even the slightest trace of emotion. The pain of facing the other children as they told him he would never belong there, the dread of seeing that all too familiar disappointment in his father’s eyes, the shame of pushing away his mother when in reality all he wanted to do was to cling to her for the emotional support he had so desperately craved and yet forbidden himself. After all,insecurity and self-loathing are human emotions.

“It was … quite difficult.” There is a sadness in Mccoy’s eyes as he appears to ponder all that Spock had not said. To distract the doctor he adds “I believe it was particularly unpleasant for my mother.”

“Mmm,” says McCoy pensively. “I liked your mother. She was very … well, she was very human,” he finishes somewhat lamely.

“And she liked you, doctor,” says Spock. He pauses before adding mischievously “She also cannot pronounce my full Vulcan name.”

McCoy laughs again. “I’ll bet she can get closer than me last night.”

“Much closer,” but there is a smile in his voice. “But she has had more practice than you,” he adds fairly, eliciting another laugh from McCoy.

They finish their meals in another comfortable silence before Spock fetches their deserts from the synthesiser.

As he sets into his apple tart McCoy gazes at Spock with the air of a man who wants to speak but does not know if he is prying too much.

“You have a question, doctor,” Spock suggests, amusement in his voice. McCoy is not the sort of human who requires telepathy to read.

He huffs out another small laugh. “Your father is a Vulcan and your mother is human.” He falters, perhaps at the obviousness of his pronouncement. “What I mean is … how did they … you know … end up married? … If you don’t mind me asking, that is”.

Spock tildes his head to survey the man. “My father is the Vulcan ambassador to earth; he thought it would be logical to take a human wife so as to better understand the culture.”

McCoy gives him a strange almost pleading look.

Sensing what the doctor was too afraid - or perhaps prudish - to ask Spock continues. “Vulcans choose their mates in a different way to humans. Our ability to telepathically link with someone allows that logic can play a greater, and even essential role in choosing whom someone should bonded with.” McCoy is looking at him with an intensity that would perturb a lesser man. “The Vulcan male is evolutionarily programmed to protect, possess and cherish his mate, regardless of species thus allowing for inter-species bonding. My father found my mother to be a woman of … unusual humanity.”

He can see disappointment in the doctor’s eyes, though he does not understand why. “‘Possess, protect and cherish,’” repeats McCoy. “And mates are chosen by logic.”

“Almost always the case: a suitable match is made for the prospective spouse and factors are taken into consideration: status, alliances and so on. Though there have - of course - been exceptions,” Spock says evenly. And daring to speculate as to the cause of the doctor’s previous disappointment he adds “You can imagine how the fiasco that was my marriage with T’Pring caused much comment among Vulcans.”

As he had hoped, his mentioning of his own Nuptials spurs McCoy into speech.“Do you think logic is a good way to choose a mate?”

“For full blooded Vulcans, yes.” He hesitates. The next sentence might turn the course of the entire evening. He toys again with the idea of telling a half truth, or perhaps changing the subject entirely. But the Vulcan is realising with greater clarity by the moment that he _wants_ to change the course of the evening and beyond.

“However, not for me.”

McCoy’s eyes go wide and Spock can somehow sense that the doctor’s heartbeat has increased dramatically.

As they finish up, McCoy stands to help Spock gather in the plates. “This was nice,” he says with that maddening shy smile that goes straight to Spock’s loins.

“I’m glad you have enjoyed it,” the Vulcan replies as he walks McCoy to the door. They are due to partake in an away mission in the morning, so cannot wait up, though Spock finds himself unaccountably hostile to the endeavour.

Just before he is close enough to activate the door sensor McCoy turns. “Spock,” he asks hesitantly, blushing visibly even in the dimmed light. “Was this a date?”

They are very close now. Close enough that the doctor has to tilt his head slightly to look him in the eye. Spock can feel his own heartbeat quicken along with McCoy’s.

Gazing down into the doctor’s uncharacteristically nervous face Spock watches his reaction carefully as he says: “Yes.” A soft smile lights up the doctor’s whole being as he nods.

“I thought so. Just didn’t want to presume … ” he tails off, his gaze roams from the candle-lit table to Spock’s emasculate robes. “Brown’s a nice colour on you - it brings out your eyes.”

Spock does not want the moment to end; the two of them so close and the promise of what they both want to happen next hovering between them. It is the doctor who makes the move. “Well, I guess if it’s a date then … ” and he closes the gap between them and drops a quick kiss on Spock’s lips.

With a smile, a _good night_ and a _swoosh_ of the door, Spock is standing along in his quarters. He does not move for several moments, savouring the feeling of McCoy’s lips on his, relishing the memory of their closeness, of how he had been able to feel the warmth of the doctor’s body even though they had not touched.

McCoy’s form is perfect, he thinks, not so much shorter than him that he has to stoop but slight enough fold easily into the Vulcan’s arms. Spock suddenly wishes that he _had_ pulled McCoy into his arms, that he had given a proper kiss, and then—

Spock releases the breath he’s been holding. _Control yourself_. It is useless though. More vividly than he has imagined anything in months he sees himself kissing the doctor, kissing him as if in some frenzy. McCoy is kissing him back with equal passion, his arms about Spock’s shoulders.

Spock can feel himself grow hard at the image but for once he does not try to suppress the emotions: he _wants_ to fantasise about the doctor, what it would be like — what _McCoy_ would be like.

He sheds off his clothes in a matter of seconds, leaving them in a pile at the door, which - even in his mania - he has the good sense to lock.

To bed. For the first time in a long, long time he takes himself in hand with the image of McCoy beneath him, coming apart in his extrasy as Spock thrusts into him playing with the clarity of a recorded film. The McCoy in his head is loud and demonstrative, moaning and gasping with Spock’s every thrust. A deep throated moan erupts from Spock’s own mouth as his arousal burns inside him.

Yes, he wants to feel him round his cock; hear his wonton cries; see him undone and debauched as Spock pounds into him.

He climaxes to the thought of their two bodies, slick with oil in the old Vulcan way, writhing together in an ecstasy of want.

And after … Spock will take good care of him; he will wash him in the traditional manner, dry him with soft towels and take him to bed where they will sleep in each other’s arms, no longer lying in their respective lonelyness, but together.

It is with this last image that the shame finally overtakes Spock as he drifts off to sleep.


	3. The Ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonard, Spock, Scotty and Jim beam down to a hostile planet in an attempt to persuade them to join the Federation.
> 
> Note: this chapter contains a rape at the end. It does not go into any type of detail, but be warned.

Leonard McCoy cannot remember the last time he woke up in such a good mood. He cannot - and does not even attempt to - fight away the giddy smile that spread across his face upon waking.

Certainly he feels far better than he had the previous day. He’d woken up and instantly the recollection of the previous night, or rather the way in which he’d awoken on that shuttlecraft, his whole body draped around Spock The embarrassment and dread at the thought of having to face the First Officer had hit him even before the hangover.

 _Don’t think about that,_ he chides himself. _He didn’t even mind._ He remembers with delicious clarity the way Spock had smiled at him yesterday as he’d left the Vulcan’s quarters: not a proper smile like a human, but more than he’d ever seen from the man before.

He hums to himself as he dresses. Even in his fresh euphoria born of last night, Leonard can recall with perfect clarity his mortification as Jim and Scotty and the others had teased him, something he would usually laugh off with a shrug and a pithy remark of his own. Not this time.

But Spock hadn’t teased him. Of course he wouldn’t. But he had given him a strange look that Leonard had feared to analyse.

Still singing to himself, he goes to the bathroom to freshen up. His face in the reflection is jubilant, definitely a departure from normal. _Calm down,_ he scolds himself gently, _it was only dinner - it’s not like he swore undying love to you._ _It wasn’t even him who started the kiss_.

Suddenly - as is his way with issues of the heart - Leonard is panicking. What if Spock had not wanted Leonard to kiss him? Weren’t Vulcans sensitive about touch? Had he just committed some unforgivable cultural faux pas? He had thought - in the split second he _had_ given the action any thought before execution - that a good night kiss would convey to the Vulcan that he had enjoyed the night, that he - Leonard - liked the idea that they had been on a date and that he would like to go on further dates with Spock.

The reflection in the mirror is breathing rather heavily. _Relax, he didn’t mind. He smiled at you after._ That was true. Spock’s smile is all the more precious for its rarity.

As for the touching, Spock has initiated touches with him loads of times, he tells himself bracingly. Besides, had it not been Spock who’d invited him on the date in the first place. He is overthinking like he always has with relationships.

He is early for his shift so he returns to lounge on his bed where he passes the time by recalling the times he and Spock had been the most physically close; usually it was when Leonard was dying of something or other. Indeed, the first time he’d realised his feelings for Spock went beyond those of a workplace crush had been at such a time.

He’d taken it upon himself to test the dubious vaccine in a moment of desperation on Miri’s planet (Leonard never remembers the names of the planets they visit to Jim’s amusement and Spock’s disapproval).He’d come round to the sight of the gathered landing party — and Spock leaning over him cradling his head. The Vulcan’s obvious concern and genuine emotion at the thought of Leonard’s imminent death had been apparent to the whole group. It had given the doctor a warm flush of feeling in his belly which he easily relives at the memory.

Indeed, as the Five Year Mission had gone on, he and Spock had developed a friendship which might better be described as a closeness based on mutual respect and intrigue, for there are not two more diametrically opposed world views on the _Enterprise_ as his and Spock’s. Or so he had thought.

As they always do when he is thinking about Spock, his thoughts drift to Sarpeidon (one planet whose name he’ll _never_ forget) - or as he calls it in his head _the best of times and the worst_. Spock had taken care of him when he was sick with such care and tenderness. Leonard can still feel the Vulcan’s arm around his shoulders and the way he’d practically been carried to the cave. And Leonard had liked being looked after by Spock; had liked the closeness; the easy touches; the warmth.

But then he had had to watch as the Vulcan had fallen in love with someone else while he looked on. Leonard cannot ever remember feeling so hopelessly lonely as he had in that cave with no hope of escape and no way of knowing that they would not die in that frozen past.

They _had_ gotten away though, he and Spock, and Spock has reverted back to his placid reserved self, claiming that Zarabeth was in his past.

Leonard had wondered, of course, but did not want to press the Vulcan who appeared to be embarrassed about his outbursts in the cave.

 _Don’t think about that_ , he chides himself again. _That was a year ago and he’s changed._ He still felt guilty for taking Spock away from Zarabeth, leaving her to live and die alone on that hell of a planet.

Suddenly restless, he gets up and begins to pace between his bedroom and office space. Up until two days ago he would have said that his relationship with Spock had been as it always had been: no more than that of colleagues and friends, so what has causes the recent change? This can’t all be born of their mutual intoxication at a diplomatic function, can it?

He grins like an idiot whenever he remembers the way Spock had been that night; he’d still kept his Spock-like demeanour of cool composure - Leonard thinks he’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t - but he’d also been more relaxed and open than the doctor can remember.

 _Doctor McCoy, you are cute._ God, but those brownies must have addled his mind, or perhaps cute means something else on Vulcan.

Leonard remembers how he’d woken to find himself cuddled into Spock and the feeling of the Vulcan’s warm breath ghosting through his hair. He’d been deeply embarrassed to have gotten so drunk on free whiskey to have put himself into that situation in the first place. The subsequent scene on the bridge with Spock and the picture had been excruciating, Leonard had almost resigned his commission on the spot the mortification had been so great.

Presently, he hears the boson’s whistle and the captain himself appears on the monitor. “Transporter room in 5, Bones,” sounds Jim’s voice sounding as chipper as ever.

“Aye, Captain.”

“And you can tell me how last night went.”

“Not on your life.” Jim smirked as he terminated the transmission.

As Leonard enters the transporter room he sees the other three members of the landing party - Jim, Scotty and Spock - assembled by the console. Joining them, he listens as Jim explains that the inhabitants of this planet- the Mubeans - have shown hostility to Federation personnel in the past and therefore all due care is required.

“Let me guess,” Leonard drawls. “Dilithium crystals.”

Jim looks at him, the corners of his mouth pulling into a reluctant smile. “Boatloads of them, Bones. That’s why Command have told me that I’d better not screw this up, so best behaviour all of you.”

Leonard allows himself a small smile as he meets Spock’s eyes for the first time that day. The Vulcan acknowledges it with a small incline of the head as they step onto the transporter pads. He is convinced he can feel the heat off the man.

Leonard’s first instinct upon arrival on the planet’s surface is that something is wrong; they have beamed down to a deserted quarry and there is no welcome party as had been expected.

The skies are an oppressive grey and the pronounced chill in the air makes Leonard shiver involuntarily. He turns to face the rest of the landing party who are wearing similar looks of discomfort. “Jim, this isn’t right,” he says in a low voice despite the fact that they are quite alone. “I think we should get outa here.” He is thinking about what the captain had told them about hostility from the inhabitants of the planet toward Federation members.

“Perhaps we beamed down to the wrong coordinates,” the captain says uncertainly gazing at his Chief Engineer.

“Impossible, Captain,” says Scotty. “I triple checked them myself.”

The three of them turn to Spock. The Vulcan is frowning slightly. “I believe I too must advocate a return to the ship, Captain. It is possible that we are being sprung a trap.” Leonard notices that the Vulcan has moved closer to him. He can’t help but take comfort from Spock’s proximity.

“Well,” says Jim with obvious reluctance. “We have been ordered to at least try to reach some sort of cordial agreement with the natives.” He pauses to think before carrying on. “We’ll wait here five more minutes and if nothing happens then we leave.”

Leonard barely has time to turn away from his captain before it happens: he is immobilised. His body is rooted to the spot by some unknown force and by the lack of movement from the others he judges that they have been too.

A pronounced dread spreads over him as he fights the force that keeps him from moving but it is no good; he cannot so much move a finger.

Footsteps. Distant but coming nearer quickly. Leonard knows that if he could move he’d be trembling with fear. He has encountered many species on his travels, enough to know that there is never any good outcome from such displays of power.

When the approaching party comes into his line of sight he sees that there are three of them; all male and humanoid but for the fact that they were easily a foot taller than any of the landing party.

Wordlessly, the three of them move so that they are perhaps two metres from himself and the others. Their gaze is predatory as they step closer. One of them, the largest and most menacing, walks right in front of the four of them - surveying each of them before standing right before Leonard, because it’s always he who tormenters such as these seem to favour.

“Him,” the monster says, pointing a finger at the doctor.

As the man bears down on him Leonard realsies that he has been released from his paralysis and that it is his own terror that is keeping him in place.

He runs. Sprinting with all the agility he can muster though he knows it’s no use. He knows that with all the will in the world he is not fast enough to outpace these monsters.

The ground shifts behind him as his pursuers closes the distance with ease. Leonard becomes feebly aware of the piteous whimpers and yells he has been emitting the whole time.

As the powerful arms capture him from behind he yells and kicks and flails the creature’s arms, but to no avail. He is carried like a child back to the rest of the party where he is thrown to the ground with enough force to stuff the breath right out of him.

He has time only to turn to see his fellow officers still evidently immobilises by their captors, to register their horrified eyes before he is shoved forward against a large boulder. He thinks dimly through the pain that a rib might have been broken. It is all he _can_ think as the knowledge of what is sure to follow is too terrible.

Once the Mubeans have taken their pleasure of him they leave him sprawled and bleeding on the edge of consciousness beside the boulder.

His head is empty. He has no feeling, yet he knows that he is in agony.

As he ebbs away he becomes dimly aware that they must have released the others, for gentle hands are touching him and a man was calling his name.

The last thing he recalls is a man’s panicked yell of “ _Spock!_ ” in the distance before he faints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next were particularly difficult to write as the contents are so upsetting. I am trying with this to tell the story of a rape - and rape recovery - in as realistic and sympathetic a way as possible.
> 
> Thank you to all of you who have left kudos and comments: I really appreciate them!


	4. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonard struggles to come to terms with what has happened to him. 
> 
> Note: All the things described in this chapter are common amongst rape survivors including feelings of guilt, weakness and anger. It is a very difficult time and many struggle with it.
> 
> No one teaches you how to handle such a horrible thing and as a result many feel that they make mistakes (if you could EVER describe natural reactions to trauma as such).
> 
> What I want to achieve with this is to tell people that even if you think you went astray at the beginning of your 'recovery' it's NOT too late to turn around or to get help if you think you need it. xx

When he wakes Leonard is not sure where he is. He is in a bed that isn’t his and there are three figures crowded round him. The faces of two of them are streaked with tears.

They seem far away, as if belonging to a different universe.

Dimly he becomes aware that the pain he had felt is gone.

He blinks and recognises the faces of Scotty, Jim and Christine. It is the latter two who have been crying.

All emotion has fled him and, but for his sight, his senses don’t seem to be working either. He feels disembodied. He wants to stay this way, forever in this state of dazed detachment as he realises that the moment he returns to his body he will have to face —

His friends are speaking but he doesn’t hear them. He is pleased when he sees Christine approach with a loaded hypospray. _Yes,_ he thinks, _oblivion._

***

The next time he wakes the rest of his senses have returned to him. He is unsure how long he has been unconscious; days perhaps, or months.

Voices he recognises to be those of Jim and Christine float across the room to him but he only catches the odd word. When he hears Spock’s name it occurs to him vaguely to wonder where the Vulcan is. Why was he not present earlier with the others?

At the sight of him stirring Jim and Christine dash to his bedside.

“Bones,” exclaims Jim. “How are you feeling?” He attempts to take Leonard’s hand in both of his but the doctor recoils involuntarily at the touch. “Sorry, Bones.” Jim’s face is stricken; he bears the look of a man long sleep deprived.

“You are free to go back to your cabin if you’d prefer the quiet, Leonard,” says Christine gently. She never calls him Leonard, only ‘doctor’ or ‘doc’ if they’re off duty. Their combined demeanour is that of those who are addressing the recently bereaved. Is that what he is now, he wonders dimly.

Minutes later, Jim is accompanying him to his quarters, keeping a respectful distance from the doctor as he does so.

Once inside Jim begins to talk at length but Leonard can’t focus on the words; a feeling akin to nausea is slowly building in him and he is able to concentrate on little else until he hears “… obviously you’ll not be at work…” when suddenly the nausea turns to horror and he breaks his silence for the firs time since regaining consciousness.

“You mean I’ve got … got to leave?” he exclaims in a panicked voice that he barely recognises as his own. “Jim, I can’t l— I’ve got nowhere else to— Please, Jim!”

The captain is immediately horrified. Pulling him into a tight hug, he cries “No, Bones. God, that’s not what I meant at all! You can stay for as long as you want, hell, for the rest of the damned mission if you need to.” Jim’s eyes are wet again when he releases Leonard.

Looking over at the chronometer by the view screen Jim sighs and passes a hand through his hair. “I gotta go, Bones,” he looks stressed. “Gotta speak to Starfleet and sort out the Spock mess.”

“Spock.” echos Leonard dully.

“He’s in the brig,” Jim seems to check himself. “But don’t you worry about that. You get some sleep and come and see me tomorrow, okay.”

Once alone Leonard feels a stange rushing sensation, as if caught in a slight wind. The wind before the storm. He stumbles through the partition to his desk and collapses onto the chair. The panic he’d felt just a moment ago when afraid he’d have to leave the _Enterprise_ has been replaced by a shocking numbness, almost like his mind is attempting to shield him from the inevitable moment when he must face what has happened to him. He senses by some dread instinct that the moment where he must face the horror of his predicament.

“ _No!_ ” he chokes.

With clumsy fingers he extracts a hypospray loaded with a sedative so strong as to knock him out for hours and lopes off to his bed, where he collapses fully clothed. Gazing up at the ceiling, the last thing he hears is the _hiss_ of the hypospray before the blackness seizes him.

It is hunger that wakes him he thinks. Yet the thought of food makes him feel queazy. Unable to face eating, he instead returns to his desk and pours himself a large brandy, knowing as he does so that no possible good can come of the mixing of alcohol with trauma.

Once his mind is suitably numb enough to focus on the present, Leonard forces himself to take stock of the situation.

He has been raped.

He has been raped and now it seems that his life - which until the mission had seemed to be going better than it had in years - is falling apart before his eyes.

Unable to escape the sensation of being on the foothills of some giant and tumultuous mountain which he must climb alone, he refills his glass and empties in intwo large gulps.

He’s a doctor; he knows what rape victims suffer; has dealt with and treated a devastating number of them throughout his career; knows the myriad of psychological and physical complications they may face. Yet that does not make facing his own situation any easier: it is one thing to know something as a fact written down in a medical textbook, but quite another to live it as your reality.

What will happen to him now, he wonders. Surely the crew will notice that their Chief Medical Oficer is no longer at work despite still being aboard the ship. What if they find out? Or even worse, what if someone asks him why he’s not at work?

Before he knows it, the brandy bottle is empty. fumbling in his desk cupboard he finds another and refills his glass. Can there really have been a time when his greatest worry was whether he should have kissed a Vulcan. Leonard begins to cry.

***

Spock looks up when he hears the footsteps he recognises as the captain’s approach him. His friend’s face is slightly pinched; shadowed eyes betray his lack of sleep.

Once they had gotten McCoy back to the ship and escaped the remaining Mubeans’ wrath, Jim had ordered Spock be taken to the brig and kept there under guard until he had spoken with Starfleet. It has now been 10.6 hours since he’s been imprisoned and in that time no-one has told him a thing.

In truth, Spock has taken much comfort in the quiet, given the circumstances. Though meditation has not come easily in that cramped and sterile environment, the Vulcan has had a lot to ponder.

He is guilty of the most serious crime a Starfleet officer - no, an intelligent being - can be: he has not only committed murder, but broken the Prime Directive at the same time.

Never in Spock’s life has he known such primal fury; never has he lost every ounce of his carefully maintained Vulcan control. Not at the furthest grips of Pon Farr, not in that frozen wasteland 5,000 years ago where his father’s race’s feral influence had made a barbarian of him. He raises his hand: it is quite still now and no longer shaking as it had been for the past few hours.

What the Mubeans had made him watch, what they had done to _him,_ to the doctor— He can’t think of it, of the pointless cruelty, without that dark mist of madness threatening to engulf him once more.

Presently, Jim bids him to follow him into a nearby briefing room so as to speak more privately.

Jim is furious. Spock can tell; he simply stands by the table, his fists clenched, face working as if the captain is uncertain of how to begin shouting at him.

Spock is too anxious to wait however. “How is Dr McCoy?” he asks quietly, standing a couple of feet away from Jim.

“How do you think?” snaps Jim.

“I trust that he is healed —” Jim cuts across him.

“What the _hell_ was that?”

“I —”

But Jim does not seem to require an answer as he cuts in: “I’ve just spent the last 5 hours communicating with Command, Spock, trying to tell them that you _don’t_ deserve to have your ass eviscerated over this. That you were provoked and … and …” Words seem to fail him here. Pulling out a chair and collapsing into it, massaging his brow. He motions to Spock to join him with his free hand. The Vulcan does so stiffly.

“Am I to be arrested?” he asks quietly.

“No,” Jim runs his hand through his hair, an uncharacteristically nervous action for him. “I talked them out of it. Eventually.” He looks miserable, more so that Spock has ever seen him. “A lot of people high up owe me favours as it happens and they know you wouldn’t normally…” He trails off.

“Thank you,” says Spock stiffly. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“It _was_ horrible,” Jim breathes, face stricken with pain. “ _God_ , I might have killed him myself. Making us watch and not able to _help_ him… Just so they could send a message to the Federation … It’s too awful.”

Something in Spock’s face makes him add - rather more kindly than the Vulcan thinks he deserves - “Bones is in his quarters. Christine fixed him up, so there’ll … he’s not in any pain now.” He takes a shuddering breath and looks away, blinking rapidly. “You’re confined to quarters until further notice. And I don’t want him to know about this. You know how he gets all worried. He’s got enough … enough to deal with,” he finishes thickly.

*******

Rage. It lt takes a day or so to hit him but when it does it engulfs him as completely as the grief and shame. Rage for the way they had used and discarded his body like so much meat; rage for how they had humiliated him in front of his friends in order to make their perverted stand; but most of all he feels rage for his own frailty. His inability to outrun his attackers, to fight them off. But worst of all had been the betrayal of his own flesh: his inescapable arousal.

Leonard knows that such a reaction is common amongst male rape victims, yet knowledge does not stop the intense shame he feels; nor does it stop him from recoiling at his reflection any time he catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror. The thought of his spoiled body causes him to spend hours in the shower scrubbing at his skin until it hurts, yet he still can feel them like a disease rotting him from the inside out.

He drinks. Drinks to escape the sensation of his own skin crawling. He’s never been the type to drink alone but just now the thought of being sober is too oppressive. Besides, when he is blind drunk the nightmares are kept at bay.

The nightmares. Every time he is standing alone in a clearing with the sensation that some malevolent force is pursuing him from behind, and that the faster he runs, the faster his enemy swoops down on him from behind. He will wake then, drenched with sweat and shaking with terror and sobs.

He hates that he cries, that he can’t control himself. It is, he thinks, yet more proof of his weakness. He had had to bite his cheek to keep from breaking down during his meeting with Jim the day after his ordeal. Assuring the captain that he would come and visit him whenever he liked, no matter - Jim had insisted - whether it was day or night or if he was on duty or off, Leonard has extracted himself from the briefing room as quickly as possible without hurting his friend’s feelings. He had found the company quite as difficult to deal with as the solitude.

As the days turn into weeks, Leonard finds himself in a constant state of limbo: being alone in his cabin is being surrounded by the memories of what happened to him and by his demons, his fear, his shame and his misery. Whereas when he visits his friends he feels apart from them. Jim insists that they meal for meals, or else just to chat at least once every couple of days, yet Leonard can’t help feeling like a nuisance, an extra burden, that Jim is tolerating out of obligation - or worse: out of pity.

With the Chief Engineer it is slightly better. Scotty always sets him to work when he visits, always finding a circuit board or some such contraption which he declares: “need surgeon’s hands” to assemble or alter depending on the job. Leonard feels absurdly grateful to the Scotsman for at least giving him the opportunity to feel useful again. The tact shown by Scotty, the lack of pity combined with the offering of agency often leave Leonard on the verge of tears.

Even so, as time goes on he finds that he can stand only so much of the crew’s curiosity and stares, so he stays in his cabin most of the time. Still drinking heavily, there are days where he barely has the energy to walk the length of his quarters. It seems impossible sometimes that the act of leaving his bed was once so easy.

He notices Jim, Scotty and sometimes even Christine will find excuses to visit him. These visits - while well intentioned - leave him feeling drained as well as guilty for the worry he is causing his friends.

He starts to dread being with people, their concern, their anxious looks and delicate questions: _when did you eat last? Are you sure you don’t want to join me for dinner and get a change of scenery?_ And worst of all: _why don’t you come and have a drink with us instead of all on your own?_ In an attempt to avoid his well wishing pursuers he starts to frequent the parts of the _Enterprise_ which are quietest and where he will attract the least notice.

There is, of course, one member of the crew whom he is most determined to avoid: Spock. Leonard cannot think of the Vulcan without wanting to rage or cry in equal measure. Leonard McCoy is not a stupid man and it had not taken him long to work out what Jim had not wanted him to know: what Spock had done on Mubea. _I never wanted you to kill anyone_.

But he knows that the largest part of that fury, that pain, is the regret that they can never go back to the way they were before it happened, back to those days of easy conversations and quiet flirtation.

It seems impossible to Leonard that he’ll ever feel able to be close to another person again, let alone in a romantic sense. Two minutes of eye contact are often more than he can bear without wanting to cry; the thought of becoming intimate with another person, with _him_ is more than he can handle without breaking down from shame and regret.. He continues to be repulsed by his own flesh and cringes at the thought of his own weakness. _All those damned human emotions,_ he thinks bitterly.

One of the best ways - according to medical texts - of growing more comfortable with one’s body after a sexual trauma is masturbation. Leonard has tried on several occasions but the recollection of his body’s betrayal when _it_ happened cause him to remain stubbornly soft.

The nightmares don’t help either, nor does the constant knowledge that he cannot sleep all the way through the night without one unless he is drunk or filled with the sedatives that give him an equally bad headache in the mornings.

*******

Spock doesn’t know what to do. What _do_ you do when someone you care about is hurt in a way you cannot imagine and is only getting worse? McCoy has made it perfectly clear that he does not want to be in his company - nor, by the look it it, anyone else’s. Jim and Scotty keep as close an eye on the doctor as they can without invading his boundaries, but the Vulcan has so far refrained from approaching the doctor.

In the wake of his unspeakable, unforgivable loss of control on Mubea, he had felt that any further contact between the two of them should come from the human (Spock does not believe as Jim does that McCoy hasn’t worked out his crime). However, in the past week - the fifth since the attack - McCoy’sreclusiveness - combined with the heavy drinking reported by the Chief Engineer - is causing the Vulcan great concern.

As a scientist, he is used to neat solutions, not guilty unease as to how to help someone through unimaginable trauma. For the first time he can remember, he has had trouble sleeping. Unable to stop thinking about McCoy and the emotions he must be feeling; the pain and grief; loss and betrayal. He knows the doctor well enough to be certain that he will try to deal with everything himself and probably chastise himself for not recovering quickly enough.

After a good deal of meditating on the subject he decides to try and speak with McCoy. Perhaps they can resume the candid atmosphere of their date all those weeks ago. He isn’t hopeful but the desire to see him again, to speak to him is such that the Vulcan is willing to put good sense to one side. He does, however, tell himself that if McCoy tells him to leave, he shall do so immediately.

He finds the doctor in one of the observation rooms, little frequented for its smallness and lack of electronic lighting. McCoy is seated on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest and gazing blankly out into the vastness of space before him.

He turns and looks accusingly round to the source of his disturbance. Upon seeing that it is Spock the look of annoyance changes to one of … trepidation?

Standing at a respectful distance, the Vulcan speaks. “I hope I am not interrupting.”McCoy doesn’t answer, but returns his gaze to the stars. Clasping his hands behind his back Spock casts about for something to say.

“I have been looking for you: I … wished to talk with you.”

A grunt.

He’s never been good at this: at discussing feelings. Of course he hasn’t; such discussions were for humans as far as Sarek was was concerned. If his mother were here though, she’d know exactly what to say.

He decides to try honesty. “We have been … concerned about you.” The doctor’s posture is stiff, as if he were pressed up against a wall. His hair, usually neatly parted and combed, is mussed, as if he’s been in a breeze. The blue uniform top seems looser than before.

Uncertainly, the Vulcan tries again. “ _I_ have been concerned.”

At this the doctor spins to face him, face red with sudden anger and Spock knows he’s said the wrong thing. “Well, I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you,” he spits.

“I did not mean— it was not my intention to …” Confused, the Vulcan wonders if this attempt at a meeting has not been a monumental mistake born of his wish to help the doctor.

“What do you want, Spock?” The anger so apparent just a second ago seems to have faded into a resigned weariness. The question - as well as the tone - takes the Vulcan quite off guard. _What do I want? I want to see you smile again; to hear you laugh; I want to take away your grief and your pain and for things to go back to the way they were._ But he knows that he might as well wish for a time machine.

“I merely sought to find out how you are,” he says lamely.

“Well … I’m fine,” he says, his colour rising once more. “So you can tell Jim to quit treating me like I’m some child.”

“Jim merely wishes to see you recover. He would help you.”

“I’m fine!” he snaps. Suddenly he’s on his feet. Fists clenched, he glares at Spock.

“You are not fine. You are recovering from serious trauma. Of course you are not fine.” For a moment he sees real pain on the human’s face, but it is almost instantly with a snarl.

“What the fuck do you know about it? _Nothing!_ Just another stupid human weakness for you to mock.” The words wound him. He knows they shouldn’t, that they were uttered in anger, but none the less he feels a cold plunging sensation in his stomach.

Trying to control his emotions he answers in a quiet voice “I do not think you are weak; on the contrary. And I would certainly never mock you for what you have suffered.” He pauses, trying to gather the right words. “Your welfare is … very dear to me. I … care about your happiness. I understand that the … process for your recovery is a solitary one, but … you can seek help.”

For the first time in weeks, the doctor fully meets his gaze. There is no longer any anger in his eyes, but something much worse: hopelessness. “I can’t,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper. “I’m … I’m—” McCoy makes as if to speak further but stops. He drops histo his feet, blinking, and swallowing rapidly. _He’s trying not to cry_ , Spock realises suddenly. Somehow that is more painful to watch than tears. To stand here and watch this man whom he has come to care about so deeply torture himself is to Spock more intolerable than any physical pain. If - as he wants to so badly - any good could be achieved by his pulling the doctor into a tight embrace, he would do so in a heartbeat. But he knows his touch would be neither comforting nor welcome, so he stands and waits for the human to regain his control.

At length, he meets Spock’s gaze once more. Feeling as though he is finally getting through to him, Spock steps closer. “Whatever we — I can do to assist you, to make things easier, I shall do gladly,” says Spock softly.

For a moment, the Vulcan truly believes that he has reached him, but the doctor’s face changes. “What, like killing people?” he hisses. Spock freezes, a cold hand seizes his insides at the words.

“I was not in control — I acted —” But the doctor cuts across him.

“I didn’t … I never wanted you to … to _kill_ — to be a killer. Not for _me!_ ” His voice is much higher than usual and he looks as though he’s on the verge of tears again.

Spock steps closer, but the human flinches backwards. “Leonard, _please…_ ”

“You— Stay away from me!” he half chokes as he all but runs from the room, leaving Spock alone with his regrets and his emotions.

*******

That night Leonard drinks like he never has in his life. The guilt and the anger overtake his reason.

Even through the fug of his intoxication he can see the naked pain in Spock’s face as he’d shouted at the Vulcan. Never has he seen such vulnerability on those features; never has he heard such earnestness from those lips. Funny, he thinks, a month or so ago he’d have given anything to hear Spock speak in such terms, but now the words simply hammer home the the fact that _that_ future can never be; _he and Spock_ can never be: _that_ future was stolen from them by three Mubeans who wished to send a message.

He hates what Spock did on that planet, just as he hates how his body responded to the Mubeans. Most of all, he hates that he has hurt the Vulcan and that the sight of Spock’s stricken face haunts him well into his second bottle of bourbon.

When they find him he is passed out on the cold floor. He wakes to the sound of Jim calling his name. The captain looks scared as he bends over Leonard. Apparently he’s been calling and shaking him for some moments. Scotty is only a few steps behind him, also crouched down. Leonard can see Spock silhouetted in the doorway, keeping a careful distance.

“No,” moans Leonard feebly as Jim tries to help him up.

“Bones, you’ve gotta let us help you,” says Jim pleadingly. “You’re trying to do this all on your own.” He succeeds in practically lifting Leonard off the floor and onto the bed.

“‘m fine,” slurs Leonard vaguely as he falls back against his pillow. He wonders if he’s ever known a headache like it: throbbing so viciously that he can barely speak.

A _hiss_ sounds at his elbow and he looks up in time to see Jim return a hypo to his pocket. His mind seems to clear somewhat after that and he props himself up on his elbows, so as to look his captain in the eye. His head is so fuzzy that he can’t quite remember why they’re looking at him like that.

“Bones,” Jim sighs. He perches lightly on the edge of Leonard’s bed and takes his hand in both of his. “I … know you’re … you’re struggling…” He swallows thickly as he tries to find the right words. ”None of us,” he gestures vaguely at himself and the other two, “has ever been through what they did to you and I can’t even begin to imagine how these weeks have been.” His voice breaks and Leonard looks away, his own throat becoming tighter by the second. “But … you can’t go on like this. It’s … not going to help you get better.”

A pang of dread mixid with guilt seizes Leonard. He knows what they will say: they will make him leave the security of his solitude; make him go about the crew once more; suffer their questions and their pity. A knot of anguish appears his gut causing him to feel physically sick, or is that the residual hangover?

He can’t speak, physically can’t speak as Jim and then Scotty talk to him of the benefits of leaving his cabin and eating his meals perhaps with Jim, Scotty or Spock, just a small step, they tell him, to establish a routine for him, they tell him. Why not, Jim suggests, join them for the Christmas party tonight? He need only join them for a short time, and the crew will be too drunk to pay him any mind. It will be good for him to be among people again.

Leonard is vaguely aware of meekly nodding his assent to this proposal and once the three have departed of running to the bathroom to retch. He spends the next minutes panting on the bathroom floor. And quite as suddenly as it had appeared, his feelings of dread and trepidation turn to rage at his friends; rage for their lack of understanding. Don’t they know that there’s areason he’s been avoiding other’s company; the same reason he can’t look in the bathroom mirror without flinching; or the reason he’s lost all sexual function: the attack has broken him.

He rolls onto his back staring fixedly at the light. If he weren’t so weak he’d be able to go to the Christmas party; if he weren’t so weak he’d be able to be with other people for extended periods of time without wanting to cry; if he were strong he’d be able to work again, to be of use.

Nerving himself, he gets to his feet and goes to the mirror. He looks a mess: his hair is all over the place and his eyes are bloodshot. He looks older too, more lined and pinched. His face looks as green as Spock in the poor bathroom light, or is that might be the hangover? He looks away quickly. _What time is it?_ He gazes over to his desk to where the chronometer sits. 1800. He must have been out for near enough twelve hours. Jim had said to meet him at 1900: that would be enough time. _No! I can’t go._ All he would need to do is shower and change his clothes. _But all the people…_ Jim would be there and Scotty and— _I can’t!_

**_***_ **

When he emerges - fully washed and pressed - from the turbo lift nearly an hour later it is fair to say that the captain looks as astonished as Leonard feels. He quickly hides it behind a genuinely delighted smile as he claps him on the back.

As he and Jim make their way into the crowded party room, the celebrations - as well as most of the party-goers - are well under way. They pass groups of dancing yeomen and engineers, biologists and psychologists until they reach the food table where Scotty is holding court. Spock catches up with them a few minutes later, looking as out of place amongst the revelry as Leonard feels.

He spends the next half hour clinging awkwardly to Jim’s side as he mingles amongst his crew. He ignores the many stares that come his way as best he can and instead focuses on marvelling at how Christmas can have come upon them already.

And suddenly he’s on his own. Where has Jim gone? Carried away by the press of people wanting to wish their captain a merry Christmas, no doubt. He begins to sweat, his heart racing. When had it gotten so hot in here?

Someone moves very close behind him and he’s running. Running as if his life depends on it. Out of the party room, up the corridor and down the next. Running until he is bent double with the effort.

He staggers into the nearest room: a mercifully deserted briefing room. Sinking down the wall and onto the floor, he tries in vain to fight off the descending panic attack. On and on he fights to regain composure until finally he manages to steady his breathing.

On shaky legs, he tries to rise but falls back against the wall in a half crouch. Gazing upwards, his eyes go wide: there, standing squarely in the doorway, is Spock.

“What the fuck are you doing following me?” he snarls, furious at the Vulcan for witnessing his moment of vulnerability.

Spock moves toward him. “I saw you were absent from the party. I wished to see if you were alright.” His eyes are sad and soft and yet Leonard still wants nothing more than to push him out of his way as he stands, or does he?

As Leonard makes to push past Spock, his unsteady legs cause him to trip. The Vulcan catches him easily round the waist and for a second they stand, pressed together, Spock gazing intently down at him. “ _Leonard_ …” he says in a voice barely audible. More plea than question.

And Leonard is unable to control it any longer: he begins to cry as he hasn’t cried in years. He cries for the life he’s lost that will never be the same; he cries for the security he’d once felt and its loss; for the night terrors and fear; the grief.

And all the while Spock holds him as he sobs into his shoulder and murmurs soothing words in Vulcan and English. He tells Leonard that he’s safe now, that things will get easier, that there will come a day when he smiles again. And Leonard wants to believe him, but it seems impossible that he’ll ever be happy again.

But, with the Vulcan’s arms around him and his fingers stroking soothingly through his hair, his gentle, soft eyes Leonard allows himself the beginnings of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be more about the recovery and will hopefully be much more hopeful.
> 
> It always gets better!


	5. A New Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonard continues to recover from his ordeal, this time with the help of his friends.
> 
> But where does Spock fit in?

They stand huddled together long after Leonard’s tears have stopped. Spock can’t seem to bring himself to release him from his embrace.

At length they stand apart, Leonard wiping his eyes on his sleeve. His face is red and blotchy, his hands still shaking slightly. He seems diminished, exhausted, as if all the fight has left him.

“I think you ought to head back to your quarters,” says Spock softly, putting an arm round Leonard’s shoulders. “You must be … very tired.”

The human nods meekly and allows the Vulcan to steer him out of the room.

No sooner are they in the corridor than Jim catches up with them; he seems to have run the entire length of the ship judging by his breathlessness.

“Oh, you found him! Thank god,” gasps the captain.

“I am taking Leonard to bed. Tonight has been quite taxing for him.” Jim’s eyes widen at the Vulcan’s use of Leonard’s first name and his gaze falls to Spock’s arm which is fixed protectively round his’s shoulders.

“Good,” says Jim and pats Leonard gently on the arm. “We’ll catch up in the morning, Bones.”

When they make it back to Leonard’s quarters Spock helps him into bed, where he lies fully clothed under the blanket. There follows a slightly uncomfortable moment where the question hangs between them.

Finally, Leonard broaches it: with a shamefaced glance up at the Vulcan he asks “Stay?” His voice is small and brittle. _He believes he is showing weakness,_ Spock realises.

“Of course,” he murmurs. “For as long as you wish it.”

The human drifts off to sleep after a while, leaving Spock to his thoughts. The Vulcan is still reeling slightly from the depth and ferocity of emotions that had been transmitted during their contact. He had been prepared for the grief; the anger; the fear: such were only to be expected. However the shame and the self-loathing had caught him off guard: their vehemence. _What has he got to feel ashamed about?_

He gazes down at Leonard’s face, so marked by the events of the last few weeks and wonders - not for the first time - what would have happened if there hadn’t been an ambush on Mubea: if their relationship had continued to grow as it had in the days leading up to the attack. He wonders if they’ll ever return to that easy closeness, or indeed if they’ll be close again. At the time, Spock had battled with the shame of admitting to himself that he was experiencing a real and human attraction to the doctor, had admonished himself for his un-Vulcan feelings of warmth and care for the human. Such admonitions seem cruel now, unfeeling in the wake of what has happened.

The swell of affection that consumes Spock as he continues to gaze into the human’s face is bittersweet. _If he asks it of me I shall not leave his side._ More than anything, he wants to protect him, to shield him from further pain and fear; he wants to make him happy again. Yet he knows, for true healing, Leonard alone can achieve that.

A shadow crosses the human’s face and Spock can sense the discomfort. A bad dream. He reaches forward and takes Leonard’s hand in his, attempting to project calmness from his body to the human’s. Without waking, Leonard clutches his hand to his heart - an oddly intimate action. Beneath his fingers, Spock feels the human’s heart rate return to normal: a slow, steady _du-dum, du-dum_ beneath his ribs.

 _When did he get so thin?_ The doctor has always been slight of build, but the outline of his ribcage is clear even beneath the blankets. Spock wonders how long he has been shunning his meals And again, there rises in him the longing to take care of the human whose wellbeing has occupied his thoughts for the last several weeks. He will need to control that instinct. It will not help Leonard recover.

When Leonard wakes, it is to the smell of bacon. He stares over through the patrician to his desk. Spock has laid out a spread of several different dishes. The Vulcan himself is busy with a kettle and teapot.

Getting to his feet gingerly, Leonard makes his way through to sit at the laden desk, where where Spock has set two chairs.

“I do not believe there is a designated traditional breakfast for Christmas morning?” The First Officer sounds just as serene as ever as he places a cup of tea down in front of Leonard.

“No … there isn’t,” he splutters. “Spock, this is—”

“I hope you do not mind me taking the liberty,” interjects the Vulcan. “I believe I have assembled all of your favourites. I understand the correct form of greeting is … merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” echoes Leonard dully. He gazes up at the Vulcan, who still appears to be in his clothes from last night, as he is. Last night. Was it merely the fact that he had been so overwrought and exhausted that had caused him to sleep all throug the night without issue? Or had it been the knowledge that his friends were worried about him and care for him? Or had it been Spock’s telepathy, or proximity, or whatever Vulcan witchcraft? He is grateful for it, whatever it had been.

He loads his plate with a little bit of everything, even the dishes he is sure are Vulcan. And they eat in silence. Unable to stop his mind from dwelling on the briefing room and how Spock had found him, had held him, Leonard tries desperately to think of a way to broach the subject. He decides to be upfront. “This,” he says, gesturing at the plate-strewn table, “was … really nice. And last night. You didn’t need to stay.”

Taking his time to answer, Spock chews on a green vegetable that Leonard cannot name. At length, he responds. “If there is anything I can do which would help you, I shall of course do so willingly.”

Unable to prevent a justificatory note in his tone, Leonard says quickly: “I get bad dreams - nightmares - ever since … since it happened. I can’t sleep properly and I get tied and want think properly and …” He trails off, gaze falling to his plate.

“This is understandable.”Leonard doesn’t look up to meet his gaze. His throat is tight and he doesn’t want to cry again. “That’s — The drinking … it was so I didn’t have the dreams…” He does looks up this time. Those brown eyes are soft and sad.

“Eat,” says the Vulcan. “You will feel better.”

Well after breakfast, and after Spock leaves for his own quarters, Jim drops by - ostensibly to wish him a merry Christmas. The captain is careful to keep his tone casual when he enquires as to how Leonard is feeling, and upon hearing that he slept well the night before is demonstrably pleased. He is apologetic about the Christmas Party, clearly blaming himself for abandoning Leonard - no matter how unintentional it had been.

In an attempt to spare his friend’s feelings Leonard tells him - untruthfully - that he ad enjoyed it, but Jim is not convinced.

They end up lunching together and - despite being grateful for the company - Leonard is relieved that the captain is content to eat in silence - albeit a comfortable one. He is still finding other’s company tiring. Wondering whether or not Spock has told Jim of the events of last night and what he had told the Vulcan over breakfast, he notices that the captain is not drinking - even though it is Christmas Day. The thought makes him crave a bourbon, but he has told himself that only further misery lies that way.

Once their meal is done Jim leaves to communicate with Starfleet, though not without suggesting that Leonard join him for meals more often, or if not him then one of his other friends. _He’s still worried about me,_ Leonard reflects once alone. He appreciates his friends’ concern and is guilty about the worry he is causing them. That being said, he knows that the road to recovery relies upon his ability to conquer his fear of being around people and worrying about what they think of him.

 _That and getting a good night’s sleep._ He doesn’t know what to make of last night. Recalling how he’d broken down in Spock’s arms and cried… how the Vulcan had stayed with him, even going so far as to spending the night at his bedside… And he _had_ slept better than he had in weeks. _If I could only sleep like that every night and build up a routine._ He moves to sit on the bed. _If._ But how can he ensure that he sleeps all the way through the night? He can hardly ask Spock to sit by his bedside every night; quite apart from the humiliation, the Vulcan has his own rest to think of.

As afternoon wanes into evening and evening into night, Leonard preoccupies himself with books and journal articles until the time comes for bed. It takes all the willpower he possesses to not down a glass of brandy before disappearing under the covers, but he manages it.

He wakes from the nightmare in a blaze of cold sweat and panic; it had been so real: the feeling of being pursued. Wiping a hand across his damp forehead he sits up and draws his knees into his chest. _What did you expect to happen?_ he asks himself. _You spend one night in peace, eat a few square meals and everything will be sorted?_

Gingerly, and with shaking fingers, he pulls on his dressing gown over his pyjamas and heads out into the corridor - after checking for fellow crew mates. It is only after at least a minute’s hesitation that he rings the chimes of next door’s cabin.

When the Vulcan appears - still fully dressed despite the lateness of the hour - he does not ask Leonard why he’s come. Instead he stands aside to allow the human entrance, as if he’s been waiting for Leonard to show up. This is further evidenced by the fact that the bed is turned down despite the fact that the Vulcan has clearly just gotten up from his desk.

“Would you like a glass of water?” Spock asks, as he gestures Leonard towards the bed.

“No, thanks.” He awkwardly removes his dressing gown and slides under the covers. “You don’t…” He wets his lips. “I mean … this is your bed. I … don’t want to...” He tails away.

Spock makes no answer but to gently caress his cheek with one hand. The warmth of his skin against Leonard’s, the soft brown eyes, the heat and the fug incense cause an inexorable soothing sensation to build up inside him.

“I shall be meditating if you require me,” murmurs Spock as he smooths the bedclothes around the human’s shoulders.

*******

“I don’t like putting him out,” says Leonard, unable to avoid a note of self-reproach from entering his voice. “It’s his cabin; it’s his _bed!_ ”

 _“_ He wouldn’t have let you in if he thought you were imposing, _”_ Jim points out patiently. The pair of them are eating dinner in the captain’s quarters and Leonard has just finished explaining the quandary he is in: he seems to only be able to sleep well in the company of the Vulcan and as a result has prevented said Vulcan from enjoying his own bed for the last two nights.

“Plus,” the captain continues. “You know what Vulcans are like: two days without sleep is nothing.”

Leonard mumbles something about not wanting a burdon, but Jim promptly cuts across him. “You’re _not_ being a burdon to anyone, Bones. We all just want to help you any way we can. That includes Spock.”

None the less, he returns to his quarters shortly after with a sinking feeling as he ponders how he should go forward from here. It has never been in his nature to seek help from others on his own behalf, a fact that had often brought his mother to despair during her lifetime. His friends’ many kindnesses over the past weeks and particularly the past few dayshave certainly made his life easier, yet he is scared of relying on them too much. If there is one thing his experience as a doctor has taught him, it’s that recovery and healing from trauma is a solitary undertaking.

_That doesn’t mean that you can’t ask for help when you need it._

Even after all these years, his mother’s voice is as clear to him as if she were in the room with him. He pictures her as he’d last seen her: the pair of them had still been deeply in the throes of their grief after his father’s death and she’d told him that no matter how difficult his pain was, his father - and she - would only ever want to see him happy again. Had she known that that would be the last time they’d see each other?

Why is he thinking of that time? It only ever leads to feelings of grief and of emence guilt. Rubbing his tired brow, he thinks how much he’d love a drink right now, but he is strict with himself and instead settles for a glass of water.

After he’s been sitting and debating with himself about whether or not he should try sleeping in his own quarters tonight for about 45 minutes, his chimes sound. It’s Spock.

“I was wondering if you would care for a cup of tea,” he says, though his eyes seem to imply _I was wondering if you will be wanting company again._ Leonard is disproportionately grateful for the tacit invitation. Truly, the last few days have shown a side of the Vulcan, a caring, gentle side, that Leonard had not thought to discover and it makes him feel even guiltier for having shouted at him.

After accepting he accompanies the Vulcan next door. “If you wish to make use of the bed tonight,” says Spock in as casual a voice as is reasonable for a Vulcan. “I shall take the opportunity to meditate.” _He’s been talking to Jim,_ Leonard realises as he accepts a cup from the Vulcan.

They drink in silence and once he’s finished Leonard sits back awkwardly in his chair.

“I…” he begins, not knowing how to ask what he wishes to ask. Spock looks up from his mug, an eyebrow raised in that familiar way of his.

“Yes,” prompts Spock.

Leonard swallows, his throat suddenly dry despite the tea. “I can’t keep .. I mean, it’s your bed…” He takes a deep breath before blurting out: “It’s bigger than mine; it could take both of us…” He’s blushing.

The Vulcan considers. “Do you say so because you are still under the impression that you are ‘imposing?’” Spock’s voice is uncritical, merely curious. “For - as you know - we Vulcans are capable of going long stretches without sleep.”

Leonard mumbles about not wanting to be a burdon on Spock.

“Jim told me you were uneasy,” says Spock softly. “However, I can assure you that you are not ‘putting me out,’ nor are you imposing. Yet if would make you feel more comfortable than I shall of course join you.”

And so their new sleeping ritual is established. That first night Spock had been careful to allow the doctor to determine how close they got to one another once both under the covers. He had fetched a second pillow from inside his wardrobe so that they could have extra space. In the end they had lain side by side, a distance of about eight inches separating their bodies.

This had continued for the next few nights, until one night Spock had woken to find the doctor nuzzled against him, his nose pressed against the juncture of neck and shoulder. Spock had found the closeness rather poignant, though he’d immediately chastised himself for the thought. Yet all through the next day, he’d been unable to rid his mind of the memory of warm breath on his skin, soft hair tickling his cheek, the heat of Leonard’s body.

Leonard begins to build up a routine, slowly but steadily: he and Spock awake; one or other of them will fetch breakfast for the pair of them; this consumed, Spock will leave for his shift and Leonard will go to engineering to help Scotty with some task or other, or else work on his medical articles; he will meet one or other of his friends for meals before returning to Spock’s cabin for the night.

It takes him at least a fortnight to properly implement his new routine and many are the days he would rather stay in bed, or else pass the hours with a couple of drinks. Yet somehow he manages to fight through the difficult days and - since the night of the Christmas party - has only had a single drink: a small whiskey to bring in the New Year - 2270 - with his friends.

Little by little, and as the weeks become months, life begins to be … not the way it had been before, but a lot more bearable. It no longer bothers him as it had when people stare at him in the corridors, and he is beginning to enjoy making sarcastic answers to their enquiries. These particularly amuse and delight Jim, who beams with happiness whenever he chances to overhear the doctor telling a bewildered yeoman that he - McCoy - had been absent from sickbay because he’d been fired.

But it is with Spock that his mind cannot help but linger. They have now shared a bed for near enough five months and yet neither has sought to put a name on what they have. If it is still a friendship it is not one which Leonard has ever experienced before; if a relationship… Other than that one time after their first date the two have never kissed, nor are they intimate in any sexual way.

Yet where at the beginning they merely slept side by side, it is now more common than not for Leonard to wake to find Spock’s arms about him and his head pillowed on the Vulcan’s chest. It shames him, but he likes the feel of Spock’s arms around him; likes the way he fits so perfectly in his embrace; likes how protected he feels, as if nothing will ever harm him so long as he has those strong arms around him. He had lived in fear for so long that he supposes it’s only natural that he revels in the safety of Spock’s embrace. The old feeling of weakness sometimes threatens to overwhelm him when he has these thoughts and he worries that he is relying too much on the Vulcan for his peace of mind. _Will I ever stop thinking I’m doing this all wrong?_ he asks himself bitterly.

Leonard still finds the thought of a physicalrelationship daunting: the memory of his ordeal is still too recent.

That is until one night in mid May when he wakes, apparently unprompted: as usual, his head is resting on Spock’s chest, only tonight the Vulcan’s sleeping robes have come undone to reveal a small amount of thick black chest hair at his sternum. 

It isn’t much, but the tiny spark of arousal is more than Leonard has felt in months. By the faint light of the chronometer he admires the sleeping Vulcan: his hair, usually so imaculate, is slightly ruffled, giving him a slightly vulnerable air. Considering whether or not to test his newly found ardour, Leonard decides to throw caution to the wind.

Leaning up, he presses a soft kiss to the Vulcan’s jaw. Yes, there was something. Small, but a sort of flutter in his belly as lips meet skin.

Whether from the kiss or from sensing the doctor’s excitement Spock opens his eyes.

“Sorry,” says Leonard with a self-conscious little laugh. Instead of speaking, the Vulcan gazes down at him, considering. He brings Leonard’s fingers to his lips and then his palm, as if to say, _I appreciate your intimacy, but am unwilling to push you further than you wish to go._ Or that is how it seems to Leonard.

Either way, he is grateful.

When morning comes and Spock is about to leave for the bridge, Leonard stops him at the door and - standing on tiptoe - kisses him lightly on the mouth. For just a heartbeat the Vulcan’s eyes go wide before he bids Leonard a farewell and exits the room.

Once alone, an inexorable feeling of liberation comes over him as he too prepares to leave.

*******

“Are you sure that’s what you want, Bones?” Jim runs a hand through his hair, an uneasy look on his face.

“Yeah,” answers Leonard eagerly. “It’s been months now and I think I could handle it.” He hesitates before adding, “That is, if you think I can handle it.”

Jim pats his arm before saying, “This isn’t about your ability. God knows, there aren’t enough CMOs with your capabilities.” Sighing, he adds, “I just don’t want to hurry you back to work before you’re ready.”

A pang of doubt fills Leonard at those words, no matter how kindly they are meant. Asking Jim for his old job back had seemed like a fantastic idea this morning in the wake of his kiss with Spock. He had felt capable of anything and everything the CMO jo could throw at him. He had first talked over the idea with Scotty, who - in a true Scotsman, all-guns-blaising manner - had eagerly encouraged him to ask Jim.

Presently, the captain breaks the uncomfortable silence: “How about this,” he says furrowing his brow in thought. “You start off doing half-shifts or even quarter-shifts. Then you see how you are finding things and we take it from there. How does that sound?”

*******

On the morning of Leonard’s first day back at work Spock can feel the anxiety radiating from the human, or is that merely his own? When he emerges fully dressed from the bathroom he’s wringing his hands and wetting his lips, the way he does.

The Vulcan finds himself similarly nervous on Leonard’s behalf, hoping that the day goes smoothly for him. A setback at this stage would mean a great knock to the doctor’s confidence.

When it is time for them to go, Spock can’t help but pull Leonard into an embrace as well as their usual chaste kiss. The doctor clings to him for all of ten seconds before releasing him and exiting the room.

As the morning goes on, Spock finds himself unusually distracted as he sits at the science station. No matter how hard he tries to focus on the report he’s writing, he cannot stop his mind from wondering how Leonard is faring; whether or not he is enjoying being back at work; whether or not he is in any distress. Every so often, he makes what he believes to be plausible pretexts for leaving the bridge and walking past sickbay, but each time he does so he cannot see Leonard.

Just before lunch, he tells the captain that he is about to go and check on one of his experiments in the labs. Without looking of from his PADD Jim replies, “Tell Bones it’s roast beef for dinner.” Spock stops in his tracks.

“If I encounter Dr McCoy in the labs, I shall—” he begins stiffly. But Jim cuts across him,half amused and half exasperated.

“Go and see how he is, Spock,” he says. His tone softens. “I’m worried about him too.” And then to his back as he enters the turbo lift, “And I thought you Vulcans never lie!”

Leonard is at the computer just inside the entrance when Spock arrives in sickbay. For a moment, Spock simply stands and stares at the doctor’s back, unable to fight the feeling of immense pride that builds in his stomach. _You would not know he has been away._

Leonard’s face brightens when he turns and sees who it is. Informing Nurse Chapel that he’s going to take his break, he leads Spock into his office.

“You seem very… collected,” says Spock evenly. “How have you found your shift?”

“It’s…” he wets his lips. “It’s been fine!”

Is it simply his proximity to the human’s giddy excitement? Or is it the fact that Leonard’s face has just broken into the first genuine smile Spock’s seen there in months? Perhaps it’s a combination of the two, but all Spock knows is that suddenly Leonard’s mouth is on his; one hand combing through the doctor’s hair; the other round his shoulders, pulling him near. Leonard responds immediately, moaning into the kiss, his mouth opening for Spock allowing him in, and _god_ , but he can feel the arousal in every part of him.

Then he realises what he is doing and stops, releases Leonard. The doctor’s hair is mussed, as though he’s been walking in the wind, and he is breathing heavily, cheeks flushed.

“I … apologise,” mutters Spock, moving backwards. “I quite forgot myself.”

“No,” says Leonard, still breathless. “That was … I mean … don’t apologise.”

A somewhat tense silence.

“I believe I should be heading back to the bridge…” says Spock eventually.

“Yeah,” mumbles Leonard. “I’m just about done for today anyway. I’ll see you later.”

_I should not have kissed him._ The mantra will not cease. All afternoon Spock chastises himself for his loss of control in sickbay. _He is still recovering. It was for him to make that first move._ Yet just as persistent is the memory of mouth on mouth; the way Leonard had felt against him; of their mutual arousal.

By the end of his shift he begins to understand what humans mean when they say that time drags.

*******

Instead of reading or writing in the labs as he’d planned, Leonard returns to his - Spock’s - quarters after his shift has ended. The morning had been tough, but he had enjoyed being back in sickbay where he belongs. Christine had been wonderfully understanding and he’d realised how much he’s missed M’Benga’s dry sense of humour..

That isn’t to say that he isn’t damn well exhausted by the time he perches on the end of Spock’s bed. Not so exhausted, however, that he could stop his mind from going back to that kiss. Spock.

For years he’d imagined what it would be like to kiss the Vulcan: not merely the chaste brush of lips they’ve been sharing as one or both of them leaves the cabin in the morning, but actually to _kiss_ him.

Back when he’d first started to develop feelings for Spock, he’d imagined that the only way that would ever happen would be if one of their frequent differences of opinion was blown out of proportion and one or the other of them slammed the other against the wall. He remembers all the nights he’d got himself off at the thought of angrily kissing the Vulcan. _Seems stupid now,_ he reflects.

It had never occurred to him that one day they might share a kiss that was just as passionate and yet sweet. Even alone he blushes at the thought. For months and months he has worried about how he could ever enter into a relationship where sex was a factor: he had honestly believed that that part of him had been extinguished forever. Kissing had seemed almost as remote a possibility. And yet kissing Spock had seemed as instinctual as walking, or even breathing. More, for a split second of madness before Spock had pulled away, Leonard had wanted _it_ : he had wanted to go the whole way right there in his office with only the locked door between them and the rest of the universe. That frightens him.

When Spock returns at the end of his shift Leonard looks up from his journal - which he has been unsuccessfully trying to occupy himself with until the Vulcan’s return. Unable to shift the nervous excitement at seeing Spock after this morning’s events, Leonard can’t help noticing his body as he moves around the room: the solid grace of him, the sure yet elegant way he moves. The Vulcan has always had a physical presence that is impossible to ignore - dignified, yet not so forbidding as Leonard had once thought.

Tonight though he seems more subdued than dignified. Leonard wonders what is troubling him. Hoping that it is not guilt at having kissed him, he heads over to where the Vulcan is sitting at the desk, slightly slope-shouldered and staring into his plomeek soup. “What’s the matter?” asks Leonard, after planting a kiss on his cheek.

Spock turns to face him, expression unreadable. “I am fine, Leonard. I hope you too are faring well?” _I hope you are not adversely affected by my behaviour this morning_ , is what Leonard hears.

“Oh, I’ve had a pretty good day,” Leonard says with a smile. “I didn’t realise how much I missed dispensing vitamins.”

“I am glad to hear it.” He doesn’t sound very glad.

An awkward silence ensues until Leonard - exasperated - blurts out, “It was only a kiss, Spock.”

“It was … an imposition. And given the circumstances, a serious imposition.”

“The circumstances?” Leonard throws his hands in the air. “That was months ago!” The Vulcan’s gloomy demeanour is vexing him more than he can say: hadn’t Spock considered that the kiss might have actually _meant_ something to Leonard?

“That is so,” says the Vulcan stubbornly. “But you are still recovering. It was for you to initiate any kiss and not me.”

“Well, I’m glad you initiated it,” Leonard snaps. “ _I_ enjoyed it. _I_ want to do it gains and go further.” Why is he so angry? His fists are clenched and his heart is racing.

“That would be … unwise.”

“So, now you’re telling me how I should _feel?_ ” he shouts.

Spock opens his mouth to answer, but then reconsiders and takes a deep breath. “You are upset.” His voice is maddeningly calm.

“ _I’m not upset!_ ” Why is Spock speaking as if something terrible had taken place in that office? Leonard had loved the easy way they’d kissed and how empowered it had made him feel. That euphoria has gone now, vanished in the wake of Spock’s well-meaning self-admonition. The very fact that the Vulcan does not seem to have felt the same way isinfinitelymore hurtful than any discretion he may or may not have performed.

Ignoring Spock’s response, he storms over to the bed and plonks himself down as far away from Spock as he can, pausing only to remove his boots and blue overskirt. He hears the Vulcan stand up from the desk, but he seems to think better of following. Leonard is so angry that he’s relieved to have the space.

Uneasily, he waits. For what he doesn’t quite know. For Leonard to come back? For an idea of what he could possibly say to the doctor? He’s clearly upset the human, though how he cannot say.

The room has become oppressively hot, even for a Vulcan. Stripping off his science blues he notices that Leonard has done the same. It is the closest to undressed the Vulcan has ever seen him: up until now Leonard has always undressed away from him and - taking his cue from the human - Spock has reciprocated the gesture. He’s taken this reluctance to show felsh as evidence that Leonard is still uncomfortable with his body and the thought of intimacy. Can he have got that so wrong?

Yes, he had sensed the human’s arousal that night when he’d woken to the touch of Leonard’s lips on his jaw, but it had been merely a flicker, a tiny spark. Yes, they’ve shared a kiss every morning since, but those have been the briefest touches of lips to lips. And today… today had been his first day back at work after a serious trauma and now he’s talking about sex…

In truth, there is nothing Spock would like more than to oblige him in this wish; the Vulcan has had to suppress such urges for months, but that had been for the purpose of helping Leonard recover, an end which Spock would willingly go celibate for years to achieve. He is worried at how fast things are moving now and is afraid of causing the human even more pain.

There are some situations where logic is of little use.

Tentatively, after exactly half an hour of waiting, Spock crosses over to the bed. Leonard is at the far edge with his back to the Vulcan. He perches on the opposite side, his back facing Leonard. _Oh, for the wisdom of knowing the right words._

Taking a deep breath, he begins: “You … have been hurt,” he begins in a quiet voice, which he can’t quite keep from showing his emotion. “In a way which I cannot begin to imagine. And I would never wish to hurt you more…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “If it is your sincere wish that we … that we become intimate then I shall of course be happy to oblige you. However, I would never wish for you to feel pressured into compromising your recovery.”

Leonard’s breathing has become ragged. Turning to face him, Spock reaches out and puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. It isn’t shrugged away. A good sign.

Leonard rolls over to face him and Spock is dismayed to see that his face is wet with tears. As he pulls Leonard into a tight embrace, he is unprepared for the volley of anguish and self-loathing that meets his touch. All he can do is hold him as the human cries about how he’s sorry he shouted; sorry he’s hurt Spock; how Spock deserves so much better than him; deserves to be with someone who isn’t broken and who doesn’t shout at him when the Vulcan is just trying to help him.

And Spock wishes he had the words to tell him, to make him understand just how much the human has come to mean to him; how no matter what Leonard might shout in the heat of the moment, that is but nothing to the thought of seeing Leonard go through more suffering. But he doesn’t have the words; all he can do is hold him close and hope that one day he’ll be able to say with his body what his mind can’t allow.

***

They’ve agreed it will be tonight. _A strange thing,_ Leonard reflects, _to assign a night on which to have sex for the first time._ In his - albeit limited - experience, the sex had just _happened_ But that had all been years ago and things had changed.

He is in his own quarters, in his own bathroom: sitting fully undressed upon the closed toilet seat, working up the courage to stand in front of the mirror. Spock’s shift ended at 2100 and it is currently 2105. _He’ll be waiting for me._

Gingerly, he stands and steps in front of the full length mirror at the other side of the shower. He has put on weight since Christmas, though not as much as he would have liked. He stands there gazing at the hollow where ribcage ends and stomach begins:. _At least you can’t see every rib poking through anymore._

His arms still have a good amount of tone to them; he’s always been lucky with muscle retention. Jocelyn had liked his arms. Jocelyn. She had been his first girlfriend; his first love; his first experience of sex. They had been so young - each no older than 18 or 19 and each as besotted as the other. Caught in the furore of their youthful ardour, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world that they marry - that’s what you do when you’re in love, isn’t it? By the end, though, their marriage had been a living hell for both of them … and Joanna.

_Don’t think about that!_

As far as other sexual partners, he has had few. Even before the events of Mubea and Spock, he’s never been the sort to leap into bed willy nilly: sex has always been something he likes to experience with someone he is attracted to emotionally as well as sexually. The best sex, in his experience, is about trust and affection quite as much as anything else.

He wonders what the Surakian teachings on sex are. Maybe he should have asked Spock … then again, maybe not. Perhaps Vulcans disapprove of any sex that doesn’t result in children, or maybe he’s being unfair. Now he comes to think about it, don’t Vulcans have to be bonded with their mates? What is it he’s asking Spock to do for him?

It’s only then that he realises just how nervous he’s become. It’s been so many years since he was last intimate with anyone, that on top of everything everything else. What if Spock had been right about him not being ready? What if he is trying too hard to get back to normal and as a result is rushing into things that require time?

These aren’t the only doubts and insecurities however. The one thing that has been gnawing at him with mounting persistence is that Leonard has never before had sex with man. When he had said so to Spock, he had immediately blushed and recalled Mubea, whereupon the Vulcan had stroked his cheek and said that that didn’t count. Leonard had had to fight very hard to keep his composure at that.

But it doesn’t change the fact that he is only notionally aware of the intricacies and practicalities of a homosexual coupling, to use Spock’s term. The Vulcan had assured him that he has had experience of such interactions and _does_ know what the hell he’s doing (to use Leonard’s phrasing).

 _How different can it be?_ He tries to tell himself that whilstit will not be exactly the same as sex with a woman, it cannot be so very different.

Trying to distract himself from his nerves, he gazes across at the chronometer: 2115. Sighing, he gathers up his silken Starfleet dressing gown and slips it on. _No point putting it off,_ he thinks. _He’ll be wondering what I’m doing._

It is the thought, the comforting thought, that whatever happens - however his body reacts - he’ll be with Spock that gets him out of that bathroom and across the hall (first checking for crewmen through the peephole, as he believes he’s given the crew enough gossip in recent months).

The first thing he registers upon entering is that Spock has oil burning in a small pot in the corner as well as insence and scented candles. Leonard discerns the sweet and musky scent of jasmine from the sensual fug.

The Vulcan himself is busy arranging little bottles on a table beside the bed. He has changed out of his uniform and into a simple black robe which, Leonard can’t help but notice as he straightens and turns to face him, brings out his broad shoulders and lanky frame. In the candlelight his features are brought into sharp relief. That effect, along with the robe causes Spock to appear more _Vulcan_ somehow, more alien and enticing.

Leonard’s heart begins to pound, and a joke about Vulcan mood-lighting dies in his throat as Spock meets his eye. There is an intensity, a fire, in the brown eyes that Leonard has never seen before; part lust; part anticipation, yet still completely calm and _Spock._

As Leonard sidles close, it’s as if he can feel the heat radiating from the other’s body, and by the time they’re close enough to touch his own nervous energy is such that he’s almost dizzy.

Gazing down into Leonard’s face, Spock softly utters, “You are sure?” It is his final opportunity to back out and there is still a part of Leonard, albeit a small one, screaming for him to leave. He ignores it.

“Yes,” he breathes, his throat dry.

For a moment neither moves, but then Spock raises a warm hand to cup his cheek rather tenderly.

This time it’s Leonard who begins the kiss; nervous and unsure at first, but soon the Vulcan’s tongue is in his mouth, his warm, musky scent filling his nostrils. And he is overcome with the urge - no, the _need_ to see him, all of him.

Fumbling clumsily at the clasps of Spock’s robe, he soon succeeds - with only a little assistance - in baring him completely.

His breath catches in his throat like some teenager at the sight of the Vulcan; slender but strong; graceful but so very masculine, his pale body is flushed slightly green with his arousal. He is more hirsute than Leonard would have thought, and not as alien: the only real differences between them that Leonard can make out are the tiny olive green nipples - barely visible amongst the thick black chest hair - and the penis: long and thick and also green, and double ridged.

Realising he’s been staring Leonard looks up to meet Spock’s quietly probing gaze. _Are you put off by what you see?_ The question is plain enough. ‘You’re beautiful,’ Leonard might have said. ‘I want you more than ever,’ he might have said. Instead, he reaches out with trembling fingers and lays his hand on Spock’s chest where a human heart would be and then places one of Spock’s hands over his own racing heart. The Vulcan seems to understand, as when they resume their kiss there is a new sweetness mixed with the hunger.

His already elevated heartbeat positively skyrockets as Spock helps him remove is dressing gown. Holding him at arms length, Spock looks him over ravenously, so much so that an involuntary whimper escapes Leonard. No need to Ask Spock what he makes of what he sees.

Leonard pulls him in for another kiss. This time, though, the skin-on-skin contact of their naked flesh sends a shiver of intense arousal through him and he feels the Vulcan’s body responding also. So caught up in the ecstasy of Spock’s body is he that apparently he has forgotten all about breathing. Strong arms close around him as dizziness overtakes him.

They are both achingly hard.

As one, they move towards the bed and the little table of supplies Spock has laid out. In response to a raised eyebrow from the Vulcan, Leonard realise he is being asked how he would like to proceed. Funny that of all the things they had discussed, their respective preferred positions had not been amongst them. Praying that he will not have cause to regret this decision, but acting on his instincts none the less, he hands Spock the little bottle of lubricant, clambers onto the bed and lies back with his knees parted.

He hadn’t realised what a vulnerable position this would be until he feels the Vulcan’s gentle hands on his thighs. _Oh god, is this a good idea? What is it you’re trying to prove here?_

Perhaps sensing his discomfiture, Spock kneels between Leonard’s parted thighs and leans forward so that his face is inches away from the human’s, taking all his weight on his own arms as he does so. The kiss is gentle, reassuring as he strokes Leonard’s hair back from his face. _Don’t cry,_ Leonard tells himself.

When the Vulcan's tongue moves from mouth to nipple, Leonard lets out a strangled moan of pleasure and his hips thrust upwards involuntarily. One and on, Spock pleasures him with his mouth, his fingers, his soft caresses until he reaches Leonard’s hard penis. Hot breath ghosts along his length a split second before he feels Spock’s mouth take him in all the way until he feels glans make contact with the back of throat.

“ _Spock!_ ”he half squeals as the torrent of sensation and stimulation threatens to send him over the edge. “I won’t last…”

He is released and the Vulcan moves his attentions downwards. His nerves return then and as Spock reaches over for the bottle, Leonard begins to tremble. He cannot help it, and when one of the Vulcan’s long fingers begins to probe delicately at his entrance he begins to shake uncontrollably. _God!_ The more he tries to stop the more he trembles.

The finger vanishes and Spock appears beside him. Taking one of his hands in both of his Spock says gently, “Leonard, we do not have to do this.” The humiliation is almost too much to bear. Why can’t he just _relax_? This is _Spock_!

“I _want_ to!”

Spock holds his gaze for a long moment, then presses a kiss to his forehead, soft and sweet. _Don’t cry._

Once more, a finger delicately circles his entrance and is removed. When it is replaced not with another finger, but with Spock’s hot, wet tongue, a high ‘ _ooohh_ ’ escapes Leonard. Relaxing is much easier after that, even when tongue is replaced by fingers once more.

He can’t say it’s a particularly comfortable sensation, being stretched. But when Spock finds his prostate, Leonard almost climaxes then and there: the burst of pure pleasure and sensation is almost too much for him. One of the useful things, he is finding, about intimacy with a touch telepath is that you never really have to tell them what you are feeling: Spock seems to sense his pleasure and discomfort almost before he does himself.

At last, Spock gives his hand - which he has been holding throughout - a quick squeeze to signal that he’s ready. Leonard tries to control his breathing as he watches the Vulcan coating his own length with a liberal amount of lubricant and line himself up with his entrance.

In response to Spock’s raised eyebrow, Leonard nods - signalling the Vulcan to begin.

Instinctively, he wraps his legs around the Vulcan’s waist, pulling him closer.As Spock enters him, at first all he feels is the discomfort and finds that he has to take a moment to adjust. “Move,” he grunts after a moment.

And then — _God!_ As Spock’s thrusts grow deeper and deeper, Leonard’s fear abandons him: this isn’t scary - this is _ecstasy_. The moans, gasps and whimpers which escape him as as uncontrollable as pleasure which is ripping through his body.

The way their bodies move together, as if in a well rehearsed dance, is exquisite. Leonard has never felt so alive; so joined; so close to someone else, and the Vulcan’s low rumbling moans of pleasure go straight to his cock so that before long he is babbling, “God, Spock… ‘m close. ‘M gonna—”

Spock’s mouth covers his and that sends him over the edge. His whole body tenses as the best orgasm of his life tears through him, leaving him a shuddering, boneless mess panting on the bed. A few seconds later, he feels Spock climax inside him as the Vulcan collapses on top of him. He likes the feel of the warm weight on top of him.

They continue to lie like that for a few moments before Spock withdraws from him and leaves the bed. It is as if all the warmth has left the world.

Reappearing with a warm, damp cloth Spock proceeds to clean him up: belly first and then the now tender skin at the joining of his legs. He then gently massages lavender oil into Leonard’s thighs.

As Spock returns to bed, holding out his arms to him, the human wants to tell him, to thank him for what he’s given him; every kiss, every touch, every little caress, all to put him at his ease and give him pleasure: give him back something he’d thought he’d lost forever. No words come to him, however, as he crawls into Spock’s embrace. All he can do is cry as those protective arms close around him; not out of sadness or anything like that, but out of relief,release and gratitude.

The Vulcan seems to understand, for he pulls Leonard close, pressing a kiss to his brow and nuzzles his hair with his cheek, as the human quietly sobs into his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this one took so long. Initially I thought it would be one of the shorter chapters too.
> 
> Almost split it in two so as to have something to post earlier, but decided against it. 
> 
> Fewer longer chapters or more regular shorter ones: what do you think?
> 
> Also feel free to comment, kudos, share (if that's something that you do with fanfiction?), etc.


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